Who wears short shorts?
The wan sun on Athabasca.Her dress of snapdragon lace. A dwindling down to frost, this night.An unexpected need for gloves. Keep moving, I must.
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Brand "X" , and ACME, poems and stories. Surreal, sappy, funny, horrific, and human.
Lee Dunn
Lee Dunn has been writing since the age of 18, but found that work got in the way for the ensuing 48 years. In his home town of Toronto, Ontario, Canada, he reveled in his independence at an early age, and spent as much time as he could exploring the city’s Arts scene. He was introduced to poetry and prose by the works of two literary giants, namely J.R.R. Tolkien and J.W. Lennon and thence fell in love with the written word. His work includes poetry, short fiction, and personal essays, and ranges in theme from the surreal to the horrific, nostalgic, and themes on the human condition. He has been published on Spillwords.com, Crepe & Penn Literary magazine, and the Shelburne Free Press.
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I told you, from a distance, that I loved you, and was blackened with the earned shame of the illicit. Noses sniffed. Fingers pointed. Hands covered whispering lips. But you? You had a look of surprised wonder, and blushed redly, uncaring of the devil’s radio.
MoreRoad closed
In churlish dream, ragged clouds of storm, bruised and tumorous. Have I lived enough, done enough, loved enough? Must I take the knife?
MoreSomeone needs help
It’s a long shot, but here goes… A friend of mine, who is disabled and on a fixed income, is desperate to find safe and affordable accommodation in South-Central Ontario. She has been renting a room for going on two years, but the landlord is an abusive and dangerous drunk. I fear for her safety. […]
MoreAt the beach, in morning fog
At water’s edge I plied the sand for vacant shells and stones to skip, so flat. There, there was a tree that had given up, acute in its angle, embarrassed at the nakedness of its bleached roots. Close by, an eyeless carcass grinned, in the throes of its last hysterics.
MoreAs large as life
stopped at a light i saw in slow seconds herself in bliss with eyes half closed in quiet crescents her hem in hand as if to shoo nipping cats watch the puddles dear you are out of this world but i pray for yours
MoreLeading the blind
This blind alley The horde of the golden calf carries its standard on high Lemmings thinking they are lions while the meek and considered are too quiet too long Condemned to repeat lessons unlearned
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