Tennis Court

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Down at the tennis courts, my anxieties are nowhere to be seen. After all, they don’t call me Mr Lizard for nothing. Pretending to read a newspaper, I’ve cut two small holes through the pages, and when I bring it close to my face, I can see women and their glorious bodies all sweaty and reeking of sex on the other side. It would’ve been easier to wear a pair of shades, but then the subtle tones of their flesh would’ve been lost to me. On the tip of my tongue, I can taste each and every one of their sticky wombs as they rush back and forth to the net. Lowering the paper so as to light a cigarette, I celebrate a good move, and one of the girls raises her racquet to me. Oh, how it would feel to destroy her while listening to the Blade Runner soundtrack. How it would be to blindfold her and then climb inside and make a nest within her womb. Collecting twigs, I’d weave them with her pubic hair and make a nice place to rest my weary head. Pink is my favourite colour, too, so to sleep with my body resting against the pinky walls of her vagina would be a treat indeed. I don’t want to be like this forever, one day, I want to settle down with a girl and leave my madness behind. I want to quit the booze and eat healthily; cut out sugars and cigarettes and take long walks at night talking about stuff lovers do. But these words, this vision, it requires me to suffer, and suffer I must. On the outside, sweating like a pig and itching within this stupid skin, a different take on the world is forged. It knows the freedom of living without. Such beautiful destruction and such love to be found in these days of shameless perversion. It’s enough to make a grown man cry. Drifting out of my body, illness is but a dream. It doesn’t touch me. Moving above all the nameless towns and cities towards the nest she has built, there’s always someplace else to be, but it’s never there when you need it most.

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