Brick Lane, 6:54 PM
Title: Brick Lane, 6:54 PM
Author: le_parapluie
Format and Word Count: prose-poetry, 171 words
Rating: G
Warning: beatnik alert
Prompt: 5, London traffic light
Summary: Prose-poetry of questionable quality
Author's Notes: In which I channel Kerouac (badly) and post this.
Autumn has flung nighttime hours ahead. It feels later. It should be later. And ha, she has never thought that before in her life. Always rushed, always bustling into everything five minutes past, chanting, “Where has the time gone?”
thunk-plat
She should have worn different shoes.
thunk-plat
Moving traffic by Indian curry. High street becomes the Ganges and black taxis float upon it. Sutras scrolled out in bold lettering, wondrous clichéd phrases on the sides of buildings and carved into wooden shop doors. There is no Om in Urban.
Vita brevis.
Where has the time gone?
Londoners scrambling to subways and buses, caught in the middle of a war that they cannot see. They’re going home to television and tea, radios and mashed potatoes.
Electricity bills and birthdays.
She stands in front of him.
You’re early, he says and she nods, smiles.
For a change, she replies, and he touches the pin on the lapel of her coat.
Let’s get out of the street.
This second can only stall so long.
Author: le_parapluie
Format and Word Count: prose-poetry, 171 words
Rating: G
Warning: beatnik alert
Prompt: 5, London traffic light
Summary: Prose-poetry of questionable quality
Author's Notes: In which I channel Kerouac (badly) and post this.
Autumn has flung nighttime hours ahead. It feels later. It should be later. And ha, she has never thought that before in her life. Always rushed, always bustling into everything five minutes past, chanting, “Where has the time gone?”
thunk-plat
She should have worn different shoes.
thunk-plat
Moving traffic by Indian curry. High street becomes the Ganges and black taxis float upon it. Sutras scrolled out in bold lettering, wondrous clichéd phrases on the sides of buildings and carved into wooden shop doors. There is no Om in Urban.
Vita brevis.
Where has the time gone?
Londoners scrambling to subways and buses, caught in the middle of a war that they cannot see. They’re going home to television and tea, radios and mashed potatoes.
Electricity bills and birthdays.
She stands in front of him.
You’re early, he says and she nods, smiles.
For a change, she replies, and he touches the pin on the lapel of her coat.
Let’s get out of the street.
This second can only stall so long.