Author S. K. Nicholas

Tiger man with teeth sharpened. She has vines and flowers bursting through ripened flesh. Others lose themselves beneath their softened shells because there’s nothing of interest to see. They escape beauty and replace it with the mundane. No visions. No tenderness. Just a mess of obscure mirrors and tired faces. Photograph your outlines, for that will be the only thing missing when you’re gone. No legacy. Not even love. There’s simply nothing of value in the bodies that pass you by. They leave no impression. No seeds to be planted to offer shade to all those that follow. From an abacus to a feather. From a jewel to a Jew. The underbelly of a snake. The curve of her spine curled next to mine. Leviticus for your sins. Solitude to ease a weary brain. Scratches from torso to limb. Lips on lips tasting where we came from. An insincere platitude of morose children. A curfew on potent hips. Nil is the number of content. An absence of light the colour of love. Riddles around her breasts. Truth from ear to ear, spreading like only a lover can. Parchment instead of chemicals. Wonder replacing an extinction of the faith. As animals, we search for what brings us happiness, catching snow in the dead of night like the angels above.

Money can’t cover scars. What once was a catastrophe, now a garden of exotic fruit. Shovelling the ashes of our past, we bury who we used to be. Those ghosts aren’t holy anymore. Bow down to shadows. Feed on the abyssal plains. From Turkish cathedrals to the watery depths of Venice. Witches dressed in floral skirts. As hollow as the stump of a withered tree. They pucker up. They cling to the living empty. Cheap perfume and insects. A hive of terror, and Generation Dead. Painted across billboards and magazines like there’s no other choice. They say it’s freedom, but it’s just another way for the damned to believe they hold meaning. Tailored suits as rags. Sleek haircuts reduced to strands of nothingness in the wind of ages. Married not to the one they love but to their own sense of perfection. Gazing at their image, the demon carves his name into their bellies. He picks away at their ribs then makes himself at home. They invited him in. They sacrificed their souls so they could climb a ladder of snakes. Sit down and smoke a cigarette. Heal your wounds and let me breathe upon your neck. These nights are cold. They make us seek a light that will always keep us warm. Clenched hands and messy hair. Lucid dreams and stairwells to the moon. Turn your back on every little thing. Close your eyes, and let us see what we need to see while the stars fall from the sky.