.march 31, 2010, 17.43. .mini-contest: spring.
My first Brigit's Flame entry! Oh dear, here's hoping it's awesome.
Genre: Prose Poem
Word Count: 199
Spring Fling
He stands outside the door clutching a bouquet of daisies in one hand
and a Marlboro virginia blend running to the quick in the other. (boot scraping sidewalk tucked over ratted jeans beard in two enormous tusks dripping from his walrus, stubbled chin)
Blonde and haggard; blonde and twisted; blonde and knotted: a mop of blonde upon his head, a spat of blonde above the collar of his shirt, blonde on his forearms, blonde fighting over his weak upper lip.
He bulges in her fisheye lens peephole.
She opens the door to him already leaning on the door frame - already halfway into her world, already teetering, alcohol red, over her mother's terra-cotta coated atrium.
He ashes. "Marry me."
She takes note of the clumps of dirt along the daisy's roots and the shameless hole next to the sidewalk. The Marlboro now an empty sack of filter. She is twenty-seven and tired of living at home, tired of drinking and smoking, but in love;
(heart pounding fecund love open up love make-up smeared along flushing skin once he hit the peephole hoping to flatter with every tip of every hip too tight jeans love)that fervent, fiery love that allows one to accept their own planted daisies from tar-stained hands and link them around their thudding aching heart. She flips a chunk of blocky hair over her shoulder,
holds out her arms,
and proclaims:
"Okay."
Genre: Prose Poem
Word Count: 199
Spring Fling
He stands outside the door clutching a bouquet of daisies in one hand
and a Marlboro virginia blend running to the quick in the other. (boot scraping sidewalk tucked over ratted jeans beard in two enormous tusks dripping from his walrus, stubbled chin)
Blonde and haggard; blonde and twisted; blonde and knotted: a mop of blonde upon his head, a spat of blonde above the collar of his shirt, blonde on his forearms, blonde fighting over his weak upper lip.
He bulges in her fisheye lens peephole.
She opens the door to him already leaning on the door frame - already halfway into her world, already teetering, alcohol red, over her mother's terra-cotta coated atrium.
He ashes. "Marry me."
She takes note of the clumps of dirt along the daisy's roots and the shameless hole next to the sidewalk. The Marlboro now an empty sack of filter. She is twenty-seven and tired of living at home, tired of drinking and smoking, but in love;
(heart pounding fecund love open up love make-up smeared along flushing skin once he hit the peephole hoping to flatter with every tip of every hip too tight jeans love)that fervent, fiery love that allows one to accept their own planted daisies from tar-stained hands and link them around their thudding aching heart. She flips a chunk of blocky hair over her shoulder,
holds out her arms,
and proclaims:
"Okay."