Author S. K. Nicholas

Safely into the night, lovers fall into semi-precious arms. I am elsewhere, drinking at the bottom of a garden watching shooting stars to the distant sounds of Interpol. As my drunken fingers roll a cigarette, several miles up the road, some kid jumps in front of a train. The next day, they collect the remaining pieces of him that are scattered over several hundred yards of countryside before placing them in bin liners. A friend of mine once stripped naked and walked down the middle of the road with an air rifle held to his head. Years separate these incidents, yet my memory now places all events together at the same time. The past is a full stop. It’s a black hole brimming with so much energy it could ignite the dead souls of everyone who ever lived. Sometimes, I prefer fantasies involving your milky breasts, but in my more sombre moods, I enjoy those where I take you from behind while yanking a handful of your hair so your head snaps back. Look at me as I take you, and know how far I’m willing to go to make you mine. It’s a new year, but I still piss the same, and morning shits still make my eyes water, so it’s business as usual. Success involves no imagery; it’s about what touches you where nothing else can. Even if you’re poor and destitute, if you cry at the site of a tree shedding its leaves in a storm, then you’re richer than any man I ever knew. It’s a game of pricks, and the more you give yourself to it, the less there is of you to worship. And despite it all, I still worship you, even though you’re as used as a crumpled dollar note. Life is cheap, especially when you have little self-worth. Do your best to keep kicking those feet; keep raging as if the air in your lungs were being snatched away by each and every insect that never believed in your humble, sacred words.