Tubes and Stuff



Tampa Bay. Clogged veins and ovarian cysts. Your memories, your precious heart that won’t let go. You’re a good luck charm, and no matter where you are, I can feel you calling. The more I write and embrace what it is to be alive- the less need I have for others. Dreams of unicorns. Dreams of you on your knees with no knowledge of any other lover but me. Rivers of alcohol. Smoke clouds that flower like your vulva as my head spins from the fresh air after a night of drinking in some bar with people offering nothing but vulgarity and sleaze. The back-garden rustles with the sounds of hedgehogs and owls. Through the blinds, a billion stars reach out and grasp our skinny wrists. They caress the tips of our noses as we lie in each other’s arms believing only in the power of a smile. When I’m drunk, I remember my Great-grandmother from St Albans. She was 98 when she died. Every time I visited her, she would give me money in return for polishing all her ornaments, an act that would take many hours. Those books I bought as a result are still with me in a box that’s more sacred than the Turin Shroud or a clipping of hair from an ex-lover. From the calm of timeless time to dreams of people burning to death in a house party on the outskirts of oblivion. How they ran from the flames as I stood there taking photos- their screams falling on deaf ears and their melting flesh losing all of its meaning behind the lens of my camera. Eyelashes as spider legs. Fallopian tubes as portals that deliver us to the swimming pools of our youth that acted as surrogate wombs because we were not yet ready to leave behind our safe cocoons. I remember childhood bus journeys through the countryside and blue bottles in full bloom along with trips to the cinema to watch Jumanji and Forest Gump, but that cinema is now closed. Boarded up and full of dust, the ghost of my former self is choking along with so many others, trapped for the best part of two decades. Maybe we can break in and set them free? Maybe we can sit in the back row and kiss with tongues as those ghosts put on one hell of a show? If we get carried away, we can fuck and then burn the place to the ground making sure to dance upon the ashes as if they were snow. Yes, this would be my wish.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

10 replies »

  1. ‘Those books I bought as a result are still with me in a box that’s more sacred than the Turin Shroud or a clipping of hair from an ex-lover.’ … I love this! so sweet and poignant. All of your words here, beautiful. xo

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