Dirty Trip



Small mouth. Brunette. Empty bottles of vodka with Vicodin tablets spread like sweeties on the bedside table as beads of sweat cling to every inch of what she is. Watching old pornos, I place my fingers inside her mouth and rub my cock against her belly. I tell her I’m going to come, but she says hey wait, and proceeds to take my mind off things by placing her breast against my tongue. Each season is a reason to give in- each cigarette a doorway to the mortal remains of my teenage self that shrank until it shrank no more. On the windowsill is a statue of Christ that’s surrounded by a mass of dead flies and plasters. Outside, by the river, down where the animals play, there’s a song that keeps calling me back to a place I’ve never been. Subways. Smooth chin. A necklace snapped off in a moment of lust and the sight of ten thousand bees crawling at her small, fleshy feet. Let me masturbate over them, please? Let me remove the better half of me so the darker half can reign supreme. I’m tired of being so clean, so stain me like you’ve stained so many that have gone before. Make a mess of me so I can create works of art that cut open the bellies of all those who don’t believe. Friday night takeaways and ice cream used as lubricant because we ran out of the stuff that makes our naughty parts tingle so dreamy. Saturday night’s tasting of Sambuca shots along with soon to be forgotten drunken taxi rides to the centre of a neon city through housing estates and forests we know we’ll never see again. Love. Does it mean anything to me now? Does it shake me like it used to? It depends on the woman, and it depends on the spell. These words, though. This desire to destroy in order to create what wasn’t there before. It keeps on growing. It keeps gaining momentum.


A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.co.uk

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.com

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