Things That Aren’t There

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Generation dead = Netflix and chill. Deformed and malnourished. Mutilated like a police officer being dragged along frenzied Venezuelan streets. As the knife goes in, it’s reminiscent of how I used to take you; no mercy, no care, and now I’m trying hard to find a remedy in your faltering image. Stripped naked as the crowd howl for more, bullet holes speak to me of French poetry. It reminds me of how we once made snow angels drunk to the sounds of Joy Division. Stillness. Perfection in abstraction. Chewed nipples. Dirty blonde. You wear ballet pumps but never let me fuck your feet. You say you’re not like them yet all you do is cling to the crowd so uncertain of standing apart. Money used as lubricant. Rainy nights in Soho the only way of escaping your fading reflection. Struggling for air and tormented by your thinning hair. Buried knee-deep in work and a slave to what it means to be popular. The faces you know should be exorcised. Nice haircuts. Nice outlooks. Kill your darlings with salt overdoses. Snuff out your demons by plunging face-first into your history. Neither alive nor dead. Whiskey and the flux of innocent suggestion. No God but God. Slide off those stockings and let the night ease your passage to all that you fear. A coat hanger to bring salvation; a broken mirror the path to enlightenment. Outside, the abyss still sings your name and no matter how much I try to write myself another ending, there’s no escape. It’s been here forever. Taste it in my kiss; see it in every photo. Saturday night/Sunday morning. Rapists and drug dealers performing fellatio as I obsess over the sight of a push-up bra. Dumb cunts and Kyoto despair. Lung cancer over the telephone as dark energy calls from afar. The observable universe shrinking like a full stop as you slide your fingers beneath blankets of shame. I don’t even know you, and yet I do. I can see it in your eyes. I can feel it in the words that roll off that foreign tongue of yours. Smoke a cigarette. Ridicule everything, and never forget the horrors of what it means to pretend you’re someone you’re not. Morning bus journies to St Albans as death silently awaits. Smile. Smile and stay with me just one more day as despair spirals like galaxies.

7 replies »

  1. sometimes when I am reading you I am reminded on Henry Miller. Your writing has the same raw violence and sexuality. Sometimes I want to be Anais – your writing is powerful.

    • That’s very kind of you 🙂 To be mentioned in the same sentence as Henry Miller! Maybe I’ll quit while I’m ahead. Seriously, though, I’m trying hard to push my writing in a stronger direction, and I’m so happy that you’ve enjoyed my latest words. If I can continue on the right path, I hope I’ll still make you feel that way.

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