Author S. K. Nicholas

I can’t remember their names, although the scent of their hair still lingers. Ten nights spent alone with beer and lusty women. Images of deprivation. Bodies the likes of which you’d never want to see again. Luminous eyes glistening with dead desire. Guitars to serenade lost failures. Picture frames blessed with every bout of nauseous despair I can think of. My depression is like the night sky painted Prussian blue. It’s ignored like poverty and child abuse mixed with linseed oil. Glowing orbs beneath my tongue. Lonely bones as the outer world distracts. The scent of oranges- I taste them on the memory of your lips. Hundreds dead in the time it takes for you to take off that dress and show your bones. Don’t put your image on me. I’m my own man. No copies, only the purest gun. Dead wrestlers and push-up bras. Teenage woes and teenage holes. Infected with self-disgust, they boil and pus beneath vengeful suns. Snarling dogs and helpless lovers. Sing for me a song. Smoke a heavenly cigarette. A mass of relics of no concern whatsoever. Only aureoles make sense; everything else is just filler. Felt tip pens on saggy bits and pieces. War. It acts as perversion, and perversion is what we want. Bent over and ready to be taken like an angel. The sea breathes us. It acts as a lubricant to our fears. Gasping. Reaching for diamonds. Biting my chest. Chewing me up like the future.