GIMME

A curtain of black rain fell upon the aged and dingy metropolis that had given birth to me one evening in the spring of late '72.

 

A rolling, writhing carpet of dust, cigarette butts, and Broadway ticket stubs ate up worn cement and filled tire eating potholes.

 

I cowered beneath my blue umbrella and smiled.

 

It was urban s**t on a slowly rotting shingle, but it was good to be home.

Reviews

[W. Braid Anderson]

Shorter and shorter. So some s**t does smell sweet?

[elani]

I love it. It's brazen with a twist.

[Adela Muresan]

:)) It is simply genius! Takes the reader right to ,,the scene of the crime,,.
If you tried to,, flourish,, this up into a book that it would probably be great.

A.M.

[Logan Carryall]

"it was urban s**t on a slowly rotting shingle" sounds like a line from the Watchmen. Rorschach of course.
A good blurb from your Biography maybe.