Author S. K. Nicholas

Humans once happy now reduced to mere fingerprints. The strangeness never goes. It never leaves no matter how hard you try. Anniversary of detachment. From coast to coast the bodies sway in time to the music. Drowned family. No childhood. Just a box of relics that fuses love and loss. Heavy drinking leading to birdsong on the shores of whores. Ticking bombs in tender guts. The rejoining of different thoughts. Cigarettes and balconies facing the sun. Stretches of seasons that merge like you wouldn’t believe. It thunders as we fuck. Soft machines in flames as the heat drives us to repulsion. I readily confess. Snuff and a list of Johns. Strips of muscle. Blood groups and passive wombs. I’ve never intended anything. Everything just races into existence. Decades. Issues regarding The Yorkshire Ripper. Slashed poetry pissed against walls of disdain. Blondes equal mummification. Brunettes portray life. 1995. 2001. Hazy Jane somewhere else. Covet those tracks. Cover those wounds. Cross the old bridge and weep at the image of a man falling with nowhere to go but down. Leave behind a world that doesn’t care. Too many villains and not enough hope. Gunshots in Paris. The war of a make-believe religion. The brutality of cartoons. As a child, the night sky always called me home. The stars that shone from so far away made me feel at one with everything. The infinite distance that separated life from death. Deliver me to a place where I can be free of all illness. Give me a state of being that is bewildering. Let the plastic cultures and defunct faiths fade into nothingness while I am free to be everywhere in the blink of an eye. Through forests and subways, the ancient language we all understand is telling us that now is the time. Take a mirror to misery, and shove the damned back to where they belong. Find me in your looking glass. Find me in a room without walls.