The Dip



Star child. Flickerer of matches and singer of useless songs. A suckerer of necks and seer of startling visions. Words and lyrics and bellyaches that lead to headaches that stretch across the days and weeks as if there was no other way other than this. And there isn’t, right? Let me sniff your nipples and jot down some prose in the hope of finding an answer in your curious scent. Remove your dress and tell me you don’t believe in anything so as to fry what’s left of my frazzled mind. Make shapes and chant for a bit. Spit and hiss like the cat you are while climbing up the walls in search of something to take you through the lonesome hours when an absence of light encourages the demons to come out and play and this you wish to avoid more than anything. My clothes stink of cigarettes and wet leaves. My fingers, they smell of you and a bit more of you and the ocean and the shadows down all those roads that whisper our names in the early hours of the morning where we are phantoms when others are merely ordinary. We are flowers and exploding stars where the rest are just strips of flesh being eaten by the crows and rats that sweep through the fields that surround us for miles and miles. Give me a smile. Give me a shake of your hips and spin until the dust you kick up makes me sneeze and twitch and cough like I do whenever I hit the spirits. Y’know, like Roger Rabbit does when he comes a few seconds from dissolving in the dip? That bit where he shoots up to the ceiling and rages and howls and smashes all the glasses and bottles at the bar he’s at? That’s what you do to me, more or less. Star child. Brown eyes and portals to stairwells where you never end. Red lips and hips as ships that float and sink and sail deep into the ocean of our night.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

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