If you’re a book lover, you’ve probably encountered narrative poetry at some point. Maybe you read The Waste Land in high school
MoreSummer day, late afternoon, Crazy Suzanne appears at my door. “Are my tits getting bigger?” she wonders, raising her shirt up to
Moreby David Stone We are still in the car, pushing through heavy, drifted snow. We will always be in that car. It
MoreDeath Walks a Shit-Scarred Lane was written from memory, mine and/or someone else’s, the brutal reality clear as it came to me.
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