(Disclaimer: this is about being at a gig.)
There's a small, round bruise,
on my arm, below my wrist.
Liver-red on ivory.
Like a lover's kiss.
Small relic of a mystery blow
Inflicted by some flailing limb.
Bone on bone. Blood
blooms under skin.
The lights flash blue and black;
I'm crashing, smashing, into you.
This raucous, clumsy, modern love
has left me black and blue.
I am going to write a story of some variety, long or short, fictitious or factual, every single day for a year. Wish me luck.
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