Author S. K. Nicholas

If you stop dreaming then you’re as good as dead. All the useless ones with their heads buried in fickle currency. Whatever you do, don’t become like them. When you lose grip on the madness, you fade away. Only bones covered in pretend flesh are left. Condemned to be a brick in a wall taller than misfortune. They’ll burn down all the trees if they get their way. They’ll lock me up and say I’m crazy. I’m crazed, but not crazy. I’m flux. All parts of my body existing in different states, I’m older than the universe. My teeth bite into her thighs. My hands summon spirits from the plains of distant Africa. Drawing stars in the sand. Painting nebulas on rocks. Here for so long, but then gone in the blink of a glass eye. Butchers and priests on street corners. Teachers and thieves bending over for the love of golden coins. Educate through atrocity. Let the children see blood. Let them sniff at the heels of a thousand deranged lunatics. See visions true. Eating information is not allowed. Highways in the rain. The quarry covered in snow. All stages of depression transitory. Passing always and never the same. My book won’t write itself. It can’t breathe when denied. A journey begins again to the heart of the sun. Days of fire and wine. Of deranged obsessions leading to doorways made of light and sound. Exteriors mean nothing. Repetition an act for only a while. Get back to where you belong. Feel how you used to feel when limits weren’t in place. So many orphans of Dionysus. So many lost vigilantes. Seasons of despair make way for moments of realisation. See clearly through your distorted viewing lens. Know yourself. Despise all the rest.

The man behind the mask. Senseless acts in the night. Several shells on the ground. Crazed killers digging for truth. No motives beneath chestnut trees. A lovers lane a passageway to all things untold. Reach inside and pull out all that you don’t recognize. Lights in the darkness illuminating secrets. Each breath makes her dress flutter in the breeze. Kissing. Talking. Holding hands as the world breaks down. Chased by ghosts and phantoms. New York Silences your fears. Distressed cries by the beach can’t save you now. Art students can’t speak. They just replicate until boredom rules all. Seven days of rage. Can’t articulate through circumstance. The struggle to exist when faced with black dogs. Napa County. City to sea. Stretched landscapes and spread legs. Convicts from South America. Tied up like hogs and left to boil beneath a boiling sun. Hands and feet in the sand. Take the car and go. Consciousness betrays feeling. Escape the days like it was yesterday. Numb hands and executed executives. Slain suits like paper boats drowned in dirty drains. Sparkles in blood loss. The fight to survive. To be a man. Not muscle but heart. Shapes disappear but souls always linger. Drop the phone and let it hang. Voices somewhere between here and now. At the base of an oak tree the dreams of childhood are lost. Down by the water. There’s no one to speak to. There’s nothing to call home. Where’s the witness? Turn the lights on. Let the lights burn low and feed the demons. Tracks to summer hell. By knife they leave only tears. On the hood they find dishevelled beauty. Time is crucial. It’s the only thing that we ever really have. City of mystery. Children speaking in tongues. Blocks of passive districts. Cherry tasting breasts. Jackson Pollock. Maple leaves and tar. Isolation is mandatory. A certainty always. Lose yourself in something you can’t quite describe. Inject some meaning into the shell of what you’ve become. Tomorrow is too late. Tomorrow is too late.