Author S. K. Nicholas

There are tiny scars on my hand where pet rats used to bite me as a child. There are more scars from barbed wire escapades and where shards of glass sliced the tips of my teenage fingers on the tops of storage containers climbed in the search for doorways made of American dreams from the 90’s. There are symbols behind her ears that resemble the eyes of Jackson Pollock, and the more I kiss them, the more they come alive. Looking up at the moon, the taste of beer is a mushroom cloud within my divided mind. It helps bring on the transformation that’s been threatening to happen for years. Bukowski said being drunk was like a suicide attempt you woke up from; I agree. Closing my eyes, I see pornography and the deaths of prisoners of war. I see Syrian hostages having their heads blown off from shotgun blasts. As the shells enter their skulls, their entire heads flower like her pussy when she gets wet. Opening up to the rays of the sun, they remind me of how I’d stick my fingers and tongue in until she arched her back crying out for me to stop. But I never would, because what’s the point? What’s the point of anything when faced with the source of all you fear and worship? What can you do but keep searching and worshiping until you choke and die? It’ll happen anyway, so why not die blinded by the lights of sheer beauty? Summer fades, and then it’s autumn. Lovers dance and then sleep on the sofa watching the news. Seasons change like the channels as we skip from side to side until we grow tired and fall asleep curled up and lost but not bothered. Who is this guy? Why does he write? The reasons are like the seasons; they chop and change from week to week. There are no great mysteries, only known unknowns. Sometimes we find them, and when we don’t, we paint and sing and write about how much we would like to.