Author S. K. Nicholas

Turn up the volume, and turn down the lights. Several faces where only one should exist. Scattered images of past and present loins. Sunken like breasts, and drowned in winter dismay. Parasitic brain, leaching through a lack of belief. Scars on the back of my hands. Inked words that have no meaning. Drawn symbols faded like the look of lust in tired eyes. Flowered up with secrets while spreading like a chestnut tree. Stick those fingers in and stir some angels. The flutter of wistful hearts, arm in arm until the moon comes crashing down in the early hours. This is not yesterday, and tomorrow never comes. A constant state of flux. A never ending moment stretching from beginning to end. We fall down. We come together. Deer’s and squirrels. Mountains and biblical crusades. The curse wrapped around her frail torso. The alphabet reversed upon her chewed up neck. Notorious in certain circles. Paper bags for freedom. From a devil to a peacock, crushed breath by misadventure by the side of an Indian road. Enlightenment through organic passage. Birdcage. Subterfuge. Pandora’s box a showcase of brutality and boredom. Eat me. Beat me. Travel a path that has no direction. Fearless like artists through visions tethered by none. Sandstone. Hieroglyphics on the inside of your mouth. Hysteria through childish laughter. Prisms of dysmorphia. Mutilated innocence. Crumbling churches on the brink of discovery. Washed up whores clinging to whoever came around last. No love, just attachment. No sense of belonging. Just another set of bones to call your own. Haunted by true reflections, and dead for several years. A lifetime of murder viewed through glasses rose tinted. Smell yourself. No blame just vision. See what you are, and try to become something better. By the grace of God. By the need to become something more. Secrets as holy as the soil. Comets collecting dust on the shoulder of Orion. Rain and floating kingdoms. Rivers and worms in the core of your soul. Hanging gardens swaying out of view until all that’s left is the echo of birdsong long since passed.