Eyes in the fire. Virgin Mary. Breasts so tender. Fingers so itchy. Waking in the early hours to dreams of my hands being cut off. Bolting upright and sweating like a fucker. Harder and harder against the window. Rainfall so deafening. Your body should be mine. It should keep me warm on these lonely nights. But it doesn’t. So I sleep alone whilst the storm destroys all. Shivering. Flicking through the pages of a book. Car alarms and shrieking cats. Unable to form simple sentences. Too tired. Too horny. Just like a toad. Simple acts too much. Revert inwards. Back to the womb. Flies in the bathroom. Signs of the devil. Haunted by the supernatural, and haunted by you. Pale flesh. Empty bellies. Beauty not in pornography, but within integrity. It’s in your style. In the way your heart eludes all. Even me. But it should never be me, for what shall I do without you. Not a question. Need no answers. Things coming apart. These days so elusive. Rings beneath the eyes. Patterns in the sand. Find me in dreams. Trace my footsteps in the snow. They sell rectal fluid in jars. They please me invisibly. All forms of mosquitoes separated on cellular levels. Cheap mascara. Sparkling water to soothe a sore throat. Kicking your feet off the ground, you jump into the sun. You consume all light. Torn clothing and the scars of a knife fight. Blood under your fingernails as a brunette wriggles on her belly. This way and that. Chewing the fat. Symbols behind your ears. Those sweet little ears, always alert to the words of others. Seeds and herbal remedies. Melodies to take your down stream. Between the two of us, we please so freely. We cut the rope and let them fall. Tumbling down they go, into the abyss and never to be seen again.

4 replies »

      • I’m used to your writing doing all kinds of things to me… all kinds of different things…this made the blood race through my veins…very much a whoosh type of thing in simple terms…it was hot…the writing was I mean…I guess wine impairs my ability to explain myself clearly…I’m sure you know what I mean x

      • I love the fact that my writing does that to you. To know that my words affect you on a personal level is the greatest reward of all. It’s a strange thing, these invisible feelings, but I guess that’s the magic of writing. Some will never understand it, and I guess all we can do is pity them. For us though, we know it, and for that we are blessed x

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