Pitching Poetry
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Just when I think my office is under attack Scene One: we open in a crypt, Van Helsing and this babe, equipped With flickering torches, lights that play Along these rows of . . . what're they? Books. Jesus Christ, he says, I fear They're gnawing on these dead. Look, here. Cut to her feet. You're one of them! There's couplets dripping from her hem. Pan up (we'll use a shaky-cam) And she can only croak, Iamb! Previously published in Folly by Frank Osen |