Lactating lovers on the brink of an epiphany and the bliss of sleeping in until midday without trace of a hangover. Kiss me beneath a Ferris wheel- hold me as the bus we’re on careers off the road and plunges into the lake we’ve spent so many hours stood around feeding the ducks no matter whatever the weather. I’ve heard horror stories about feral kids sticking fireworks up their feathered arses and filming what happens. I’ve seen them eating raw meat outside the supermarket near the church downtown. Little cunts. Counting backwards I hold her breasts and kiss her lips and even though she’s bleeding she can’t help but lose herself in the same manner. A room without a floor. A cat girl wearing black tights creeping around fields and quarries looking for chance encounters in the summer sun. Drain that bottle of wine and slither on over, I say. Spread it wide and let me see what you’re all about. We watch ‘The Witches’ and roll around still drunk and high from the sea air. We read books about Marcus Aurelius and old copies of the Beano my nan used to buy me. How many years have they spent collecting dust? How much have I suffered since she last made me a cup of tea before cooking a roast dinner and serving my favourite desert of Artic Roll? Too many. There are no downward spirals, only the golden spirals of my lover’s hair that spill down her back while I’m taking her from behind. Split lips. Handfuls of snow that never seem to melt. No tame poetry- only the destruction of boring moments created by boring people who can’t see outside the lines. Get inside my head and wreck me. Chew me up and spit me out because everything we know has already happened- we’re just hanging around at the edge of time waiting for the rest to catch up.
Author S. K. Nicholas 
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