Author S. K. Nicholas

They lurk with child killers and rapists. Hiding in plain sight, and feeding on the blood of the young. Artists hung out to dry. No time to say goodbye as the blade snuffs out life. In her belly then across her throat. In Brazilian forests, along with the wastelands in Russia, the journey from life to nothingness is met with glazed eyes. Animals, not lovers, are the one’s who drag us away from reaching a higher plateau. They cut their own wrists because they have no tongues. They speak only in grunts, no creation, not even in their sex. Backwards and damned and mutated beyond recognition. Suicide an apology for not being strong enough. The scent of cinnamon carries only beauty in a wind so cruel and desperate. A train crash an opening for oral folklore. Seventeen and already just like her mum. The exhaust pumps carbon evil into her poor little body. Mixed with demon drink and pills, it makes her fall without falling. The lake behind her house calls her name whilst she tries so hard to sleep. Footsteps and school days haunting like an abusive father. So real it disturbs her dreams until she can’t even breathe. A hallelujah upon her lips. Smoke in the basement as bodies wrapped in carpet take their secrets back to oblivion. Deadened faces in seaside resorts. Cold air in smoke ravaged lungs. Water in open pockets soaking tobacco. Guilt as the day wears on. Empty regret as the glass of whiskey burns a hole. Sometimes a man must go all the way to find that he has no one. No lovers, only insects. No sacrifice, only excuses. Electrocuted by plastic palpitations. Smeared with the love of a thousand false lovers. No days. Only stretched sidewalks leading always to the core of whores. Wombs and brooms and male genitalia kept in boxes along with polished cutlery. Lightning strikes at the back of her teeth. Betrayed by laughing hyenas. These hands grip the steering wheel but it’s too late. The future’s already been and gone. Picking at the holes as the glass implodes upon impact. Comatose and ignorant of love and all of its vices. Swallowing what others would have you believe is the truth, the only thing you should believe is your history. No one else comes close. Mantras and quotes a poor mans way of dealing with what he can’t control. Drowning like flies and lullabies. Swimming in pools of liquid mercury. Age is of no importance as plumes of smoke block out the sun. Intent elsewhere as reality kicks you into the clutches of the one who’ll put an end to all those pitiful excuses. Sand. Earth. The slab.