Romance Bloody Romance

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She dwells at the bottom of the sea. She is an orchid- a vision behind the mirror that itches my teeth and dances under my tongue. She draws the curtains and touches herself as wild horses storm the sidewalk stamping on those who never believed in her love. Fingers sinking in, she leans her head back and listens to the sounds of Magazine as the vinyl spins round like her divided head or perhaps the wheels of a bus that glide down the freeway reeking of marmalade and sexual distortion. Meth. C-c-c-cocaine. Stubbed out cigarettes that point from her body like biblical shards of light. She forgets herself. She cuts to awaken the spirits that haunt her sleep so they may slide out and drift through the window to possess another. Tingling toes. Flower tattoos that wrap around her arms before spreading up the walls and across the floral carpet. There are missing chairs and scuff marks on the linoleum in the kitchen. The fridge has been moved and all the drawers opened. They once contained secrets, but not anymore. If you were to look into her eyes you would see those of a cat’s. If you were to kiss her mouth you would taste beer and stomach acid along with strawberry flavoured lipstick and hints of schizophrenia. There’s blood on her fingers because the moon’s aligned itself with her womb and when she brings them to my face she paints a tribal design upon my forehead and the bridge of my nose. Flashing lights and werewolves. Banging drums and machines the size of flies that buzz around her belly causing her to arch her back and walk like a spider with her face turned to the lightbulb that swings from the ceiling. There are beads of sweat that drip from her body that cause me to foam at the mouth. There are hundreds of whales stranded on a beach somewhere in New Zealand. My uncle lives in New Zealand. He has three children. The first boy died of a drugs overdose, and the second spent time in prison for setting fire to someone’s house. The third is a girl, and the only time I met her was when she came over to visit when I was ten. She was a beautiful creature, but for the life of me I can’t remember her name.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.co.uk

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.com 

18 replies »

      • I am running out of adjectives for your writing Stephen (I hope that is your name. I referred to someone by their initials yesterday and received mail offering up their name) but I can’t really say enough about your writing style. I have to wonder if you must dig deep or if the words flow like water over a dam. At any rate, you are gifted and each time I read your work I believe I may be reading the best.

      • Yes, it is Stephen šŸ™‚
        That’s such a kind thing of you to say. It is an honour for me knowing you enjoy my words, and whenever you take the time to me you’ve liked a certain piece, I immediately consider it a success. I guess it’s always a bit of both. As long as there’s conflict, I enjoy it. And whenever you do, too, it’s even better šŸ™‚ xo

      • You are fully immersed in your writing Stephen, we all want to have the ability to set the page on fire, a few do and you are one of those. xo

  1. S.K.– I love pretty much all of your writing but this piece just knocked my socks off. Wow. “She cuts to awaken the spirits that haunt her sleep so they may slide out and drift through the window to possess another. Tingling toes. Flower tattoos that wrap around her arms before spreading up the walls and across the floral carpet.”

  2. Saw this on SD and I’m astonished by your use of language and visual figuration. Very lovely. I love writing (or art in general) that mixes positive emotions like love and lust with negative such as disgust. You’ve got a new follower.

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