Colours of Lust

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It’s the colour we make as we kiss outside the bookstore freezing to the bone unaware that our bus is ready to leave. It’s what my mind is full of as these fingers slip through the layers you wear until they work their way beneath your bra. I’m a neon lover in a city that never breathes. I’m a voyeur watching through the blinds as my neighbour removes her clothes and checks her breasts for signs of an imminent departure. She’s blonde as I’m red, and although she would look a treat stripped bare while sprawled across my bed, such treats will have to wait because this is a time for conditioning, not pleasure. Slurred words in a bar, smoke and spit and bodies and teeth that chew and chew and chew as the skin around my fingernails begin to bleed. In a taxi through the city by the sea I put my head in your lap and sniff my fingers. Telling you my dick smells like sausages, you snort with laughter and kiss me on the ear but as we shine in our bubble some girl that grew up on the wrong side of the tracks is raped and beaten and not for the first time either. She knows those who did it, but she’s too afraid to speak her truth and each day that follows she shrinks and shrinks until all that’s left is someone that resembles who she used to be. When I take off your tights and my tongue slips inside you, I can taste bright orange, and when it slides around your thighs, there are a billion shades of yellow in my mouth that belong in a sunflower painting by Van Gogh. But there is one colour that rules them all and it’s birth and it’s death and it’s binary code and those eyes, those pupils that dilate when next to mine along with the image of your womb expanding in synch to the pulse that grips my cock. Flooded subways. Beheadings on millionaire yachts off the coast of Saint-Tropez. Turn the TV off and come to bed. Lie next to me and look out the window at the great big nothing. With my hands around your throat you gasp and tingle, you shudder and bite. Scratches down your back as the light fades until there’s nothing left but crumbling castles. A spiral staircase- a passage to a place without form where there’s nothing but the sensation of a second lasting an hour that lasts a year that lasts a lifetime.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.co.uk

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.com

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