Over the summer his mother left him at the beach. He’d walk over the shingle, past the spidery cluster of sticks that was once a yacht, to a spot beneath the cliffs. While he was reading a man came up and asked if he wanted to wrestle. He looked up at the man, surprised, and replied « where ? » The man pointed to some ground beyond the beach. We never found his body.
October 10, 2012
This entry was posted on Wednesday, October 10th, 2012 at 5:59 am and posted in New poems. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.
- And under thy symphonic fingers my strings shalt be scrap'd into sounds that strike the spheres with honey'd violence #ShaxpersBones 2 weeks ago
- Betrayal by @realjahwobble blasting out here in the French rural outback #JahWobble 2 weeks ago
- Ken's incipient Shakespeare heist and incoming infant ordeal battled for terrain within the pulsing parameters of his brain #ShaxpersBones. 3 weeks ago
- latenite oral javelin contests and darker joists in derelict crypts sick chicken is it #ShaxpersBones 3 weeks ago
- she baulked at bolstering it buccally: foot-and-mouth disease could presumably lead to dick-in-mouth disease she reasoned #ShaxpersBones 4 weeks ago