Author S. K. Nicholas

English fears and English desperation. Silence among the empty buildings that litter every high street. Traffic jams outside shopping malls on dull, Sunday afternoons. It rains while the insects go about their daily chores consumed by mediocrity. Cemeteries, disused roads, and trash on every corner. Flashing lights beneath clouds the shape of her swollen belly. Tiny rocks at the back of tightened throats as a seagull crashes into the windscreen of an upturned car. Wave after wave of tired despair as the words never come. But they’ll come. It’s just a matter of how much you want it. The masses drugged with damned indifference. The living empty beneath the glare of neon ghosts. Skin and bone as oil swallows you whole. Navel kisses in a predatory swoop. Black holes and shedding beauty as moonlight comes hushing through the window of your secret room. The curtains opened, suffocation beckons with ease. Cafés and greasy spoons. Cheap clothing and market stalls. Humans a disease passing always as the coming of days draws close. Sea creatures trapped in carrier bags. Mutilation at the foot of her bed. Signposts pointing to chance encounters on the brink of new endeavours. Only there’s nothing new, not really. Captivated by grime. The slow walk of shame from the doctors surgery to the pub. In the passenger seat as she hitches up her skirt, dulled reflexes from too many beers and too much air make me pass out without warning. Fluorescent lighting as she peels back her skin. Droplets of crimson passion as trees bend in the wind with tendons spread like butter. Embracing like victims. Torso to tongue and all that lies in between. Innocence not real. People as useless as the vessels that line your stupid face. As worthless as promises left hanging in the rain.