Scratch My Name on Your Arm with a Fountain Pen



There are brown eyes and knife fights and lipless kissing on balconies overlooking seas of limbs and hips and throats that just beg to be bitten because this booze does things to us we can’t deny. There are your hands and my hands and my fingers on your chin as the seasons come and go with each blink of our starry eyes and even though they say we’re young and deluded we don’t believe them because they’ve been dead for years, they just don’t know it. As we move without form we close our eyes and see what we want to see and as the rest trip over their own feet in search of somewhere that turns out to be nowhere we eat the mountains and we eat the cities and when we fuck we claw our way through the forests until we’re wriggling and writhing deep beneath the darkest sea. Eating your toes and kissing your thighs, we are gods and we are phantoms and even when the world is ruled by machines and man is no more they will never be able to fathom us out because we are outside of everything. Taking a taxi to the guts of our favourite town, the night is ours but we don’t care. Running through the cemetery that houses so many of our dead relatives, we chase their ghosts and shift into glowing orbs and then bats and then atoms and then strings of being that shimmer and shine in between the universes and as we smile and wave at those that exist so far away no one would believe us if we tried but we don’t care because all that matters is this one moment. They tell us to be real and to be sensible but to be real and sensible means only death. They try so hard to convince us to believe that what we know is useless which is why we laugh like seals before blowing the smoke of our cigarettes into their stupidly dull faces. In this second that lasts a minute that lasts a year that lasts a lifetime, I draw you close and whisper my truth into your ear and as it sinks in like my nails into the flesh of your hips all that we have ever known is alive and swaying the same as our beating hearts. For the likes of us, there is no loss and there is no defeat, there is only us, and that’s all that matters.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

18 replies »

  1. “…which is why we laugh like seals before blowing the smoke of our cigarettes into their stupidly dull faces.” I smiled. It’s becoming a habit. Thank you for being such a constant, in such a short space of time. No expletives today – although there’s still time.

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