Author S. K. Nicholas

Speech therapy for lizards. The cold bloodied made warm using symbols of lethargy and sex. Open wide to catch a lullaby or two. Torn pages scattered down the road. Faded ink of words stained with the meaning of love. The look of want. The need to be in someone’s arms. Blown apart like landmines we evaporate into mist. Reflections on the skin of ghosts. Deeper with each and every breath we take. Subways and flooded tunnels. Foreign tongue upon the bathroom floor. Arms bent back. No give. Relentless with every thrust. The in and out. Day in. Day out. Hands on throat. Hands on hips. Squeeze those thighs. Grip those wrists. Enterprise on Eleventh Street. Three 19’s from belly to nose. Sensation and wonder smooth like silk and smoke from a cigarette. Memories of green. Neon veins alight with sulphur and cyanide. Monsters in the closet. Bones tumbling down the wishing well. Coins dancing between fingers, clicking in time to the music of the damned. Atomic power. Windmills cutting through the night air like a razor slashing through some useless painting hung on a wall like a victim of war. A trophy to represent the horrors of World War Five. Virtual everything. No reality, just another landscape of blurred lines. Forget beauty, it’s just silicon atoms and cardboard romance. A lonely man makes for an empty room. A wasted journey makes for pained regret. Dark globes and strange thoughts. Images and feelings that flicker like the flame of a candle. Keep that light from fading. Shield it from the darkness. Keep it safe from harm as the storm slowly approaches. Mutated ideologies. Holy mantras that hush weary faces. Elicit purity through trash. Conjure the sublime through the annihilation of resistance. Humdrum minds cracked like nuts. Splinter the unworthy. Banish whatever. Fuck like it’s never been done before. And nothing ever has, not really. No past, and no present. Only the future. Unobtainable and free. Forever out of reach. Forever obscure.