Author S. K. Nicholas

Coyote eyes as he stalks the luminous ground. Girl undressing, she’s pert and concerned. White. Prescription drugs. A carjacking with bullets galore. Cocaine nights, and rivers of alcohol that drown stray cats. Carbon friends down stairwells. Abandoned high-rise. She turns sideways causing me to lick my lips. The shape of her breasts, like crescent moons against a sky blacker than the Bible. The horrors of echoes, of drifting through traffic not knowing where the next hit comes from. Junk food and trash. Caves where painters go to die. They smear ideas on piss stained walls as if Jackson Pollock still had meaning. They gather around galleries as if death were just an idea. Teeth gleaming as the gun in your pocket reminds me of last night’s fuck, put your foot down and try escaping your guilt. Speed to those faraway safe havens as the scent of who you are clings like the scratches across your skinny back. Carved like meat. As easy as pornography. Light bulbs. Droplets of stomach acid on the carpet leading to the bathroom. No such thing as an accident. No way of telling where this will end. She puts on her lipstick while I watch. She teases surreal as the floorboards tremble beneath her feet. From bars to hives to derelict valentines. There’s only you and the ocean, arm in arm like mother and daughter. There’s only space, the space between us. And there’s only hell. The hell inside my head. Static sister so irregular. Dawn. Twilight. Things lost, and then reclaimed. Listen to Larks’ Tongues in Aspic, and find me coming apart with buzzing insects. Repellent spray like perfume, or maybe it’s the other way around. See the forests and sing my name. Nocturnal lovers, haunted by all those moments of truth like leaves down a storm drain. Like kisses buried in forgotten cemeteries.