Mythic Porno Machine

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Greasy spoons and dreamcatchers hang in the window as we eat. I’m hungover and unkempt. My love is disguised by clothes that haven’t been washed in over a week and hair that hasn’t seen soap in far longer. The fingers on my right hand are stained by all those dirty cigarettes I’ve been smoking. I smell of beer, sex, and shame. I feel bad. No, I feel terrible, and no amount of food or tea seems to make things any better. I’m a hypochondriac, and this week alone I’ve diagnosed myself with several types of cancer. The first was tongue. This was followed by the testicular kind, mainly because my balls ached after we fucked the day before yesterday. Then it was brain cancer because of the headaches and colon cancer due to the consistency of my stools. Or is that to do with the bowel? Either way, I’m facing the end. As we chew our eggs and bacon in silence, we look at each other for clues as to how we’re feeling. She’s suffering from a hangover just the same as me, not to mention the dirty shame at having let someone grope her on the dancefloor while I was ordering drinks at the bar. I found out from a friend, and although I don’t hate her for enjoying the attention of other men, I’m ever so slightly repulsed at the cheapness of her hips. Her liking for adultery is a concern, but her lack of interest in the mysteries of the universe is alarming. I can’t be the kinda lothario she needs because my desires go beyond the flesh. Or is it that I’m getting old and the female body doesn’t excite me like it used to because it symbolises my impending death? Puking in the toilets from a pungent mix of anxiety and an upset belly (most likely brought on by the cancer) I return to our table and tell her that when we get back to mine I’m going to strip her naked. Then, once we’ve showered, I’m going to take her from behind and photograph my seed as it trickles from her special place. Sometimes I make paintings from the images I’ve taken, and then at varying intervals, I’ll look at them on my phone whenever she’s out partying and imagine her body not as organic, but as the landscape of some alien world that orbits a star several thousand light years away. Distant. Mythic. Out of reach.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.co.uk

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.com

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