Author S. K. Nicholas

There’s a girl who works in a local supermarket who dances for me every time I go in. One hand lowers whilst the other rises. She has tinsel in her hair, and a rubber band around her pouting mouth. Fix me with pins. Put those hands around my bones, and eat me up. A girl with long legs standing outside, for money I played her game. Ugly and adolescent. She was semi-erotic. Hanging in the cellar, I’ve got all day, I’ve got hours to waste. I saw you as the wires and tubes were filling with fluid, and I grasped your waist and as you dropped your pen we kissed. The eyes of a dead bird by the side of the road, that’s what you looked like. Cold December morning. I see you in the doorway and you move from one foot to the other and spin around with the mist from your mouth meeting mine. On the bus the other day I became so nauseous I thought I was going to be sick. There was some guy sat in front of me talking non-stop for over an hour. I was so angry that I wanted to smash his dumb head in, but instead I just sat there in silence feeling divided. Drinking wine, she lowers her head and claps her hands. On the shores of whores, I sometimes swim to a sunken town, and when I’m there, I break them in. I can’t remember if I already mentioned it, but I was in a car accident. I didn’t die however.

As seen on TV- my teenage years for an empty parking lot. This presents itself to me on a card I wrenched from her fingers and tossed to the ground. Opening the door to step out, I stumble and push her face against the glass instead. I ask if it tickles her like it tickles me, but then my mind begins to distort- operating tables in operating rooms- the magician moves his fingers and the girl with missing eyes seems sedated. She wont be missed, no, she will never be missed. In this dream by the stream she screams and with my hand that grasps the knife I slice and I stab and flowing it flows and like an Arab I pierce her eyes and cut her nose to steal her from grace. The lover fires an arrow from opposite me, and it strikes the swallow in the neck. By the riverbank, there he is, always on his way. In the gutter, Pablo vanishes. Look at those legs. Just look at those breasts. The black Christ od’d on crack, smack and 1-hour photo. In the back of a taxi, the Prozac king is a magnificent vulture retro. Downtown, the electrified guy is imaged in black and white. Removing the scissors from my cloak, her lonely cry seems to be hallowed against the poetry of Dahmer, denim jeans, and ghetto jazz. She is lipless as I am timeless, and this infinity butchers and lances those smeared by youth and winter. Poor Anita, Anita by the dark so darkly she falls. Nearer my God than thee. I pull myself back and slump against a fallen tree. I’ve considered my illness with utter disgust on so many days like these and all I want to do is fracture her from life. The titanic is massive in its derelict nature. The taste of her vulva still on the tip of my abstract tongue.