Angels (Remove filter)
The Angel
It was the music that he had heard first followed by all the angry madness, the garish badness, a badness in which she delighted. She was all dressed up nines and tens, her eyes flashing green over her overly played garish makeup that had frightened her youth away. The tinny tinkle of her rings and things, singing and pinging their market stall magic into the damp dirty air as they cut sharps and ...
Wednesday 18th October 2017 4:35 pm
Recent Comments
Holden Moncrieff on Better Sight...
54 minutes ago
Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh on 'What can writers and poets possibly do in the age of Trump, Farage and Starmer?'
1 hour ago
Mike McPeek on Civilities
1 hour ago
Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh on EVEN THE OLIVES ARE BLEEDING
2 hours ago
John Marks on EVEN THE OLIVES ARE BLEEDING
3 hours ago
Hélène on Better Sight...
3 hours ago
Hélène on I SHAN’T ALWAYS BE LOVELY
3 hours ago
Nigel Astell on August 2025 Collage Poem: A Cut Above
4 hours ago
Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh on Where is THIS Jerusalem?
5 hours ago
Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh on A Cut Above
5 hours ago