Author S. K. Nicholas

Staying up late and drinking beer. Some writing too, but the words won’t come like they should; my urges instead are confined to soft machines, and no amount of literature can alter how I feel. An image of some blonde on the dance floor wrecks my momentum, and now I think only about her curves. Those dumb, pointless, curves, and how my hands know their shape without even trying. I try to stay strong, but there’s no stopping what I am, and the lines of her hips are already so familiar to me. Every bar in every town, every city- a hive for the damned. Bodies, not souls; flesh not poetry. I’m a hypocrite of monstrous proportions, but there’s just no helping it. Somewhere between the stars and the gutter, I’m dancing like a madman; foaming at the mouth and hating what I’ve become. Succumbing to the fabric of reality, my grip on fantasy falters every time they show me something new. It’s not new, though, far from it, but sometimes my eyes lead my mind, and there’s no going back. Crowds fall into wild seas of raging hormones and inadequacy; struggling to breathe they wriggle like maggots, blind to the exotic delicacies of the world that are just of reach. Desolate high streets and the smell of wet cigarettes- that’s what her mouth tastes of. Her body is far more enchanting, yet I know it’s full of veins, and the thought of all that blood makes me feel ill. Nature’s dirty trick to keep us occupied. Fallopian tubes follow soon after, and the journey to the grave comes around even quicker. To inflict; to punish the fairer sex with my body- to ravage it with my words. Mortality is a curse, for even when it brings pleasure, everything is always laced with regret. Passion is temporary, and lust fades as the body succumbs. It’s a war that can’t be won, so best get fucked up and block out the horrors from which we can never escape. Our hearts are jailed by our ribs, and our thoughts encased in skulls that will one day scatter in the ruins of whatever mess finished us off once and for all. Paralyzed by such doom, I see no point in ever writing again; I see no point in making love, for there’s just no shaking our fate. Existence is far too real. Take me back to the womb; show me the way home to where everything is beautiful and nothing hurts.