their hands full of liquor bottles,
smiles like crescent moons
angles of 45 degrees.
every whipser,
a reason for their
weekely entertainment.

every hole is red.
every light is blue.
every limb like a mute church bell.
nothing to do
but to leave.
It's a start. There is potential here, but you barely skim the surface of it, seemingly content with a short and not-so-ambiguous little poem of little importance or desire to be so. Take this and run with it, and go spend a night roaming your favorite city streets with a notebook and pen. I want to read what you return with.
i agree with you. it's an ots piece and i didn't really give it much time (i think i wrote it in like 15 minutes), so it feels really incomplete and kind of rushed. i think i'll might try to expand this piece, or at least write a new piece dealing with the same kind of subject sometime in the future.


more crit is welcome, of course.