I’m cold and sick and need a bath, but I’ve already had a bath, so I lie down and attempt to lower the tone, but of all the horrors my imagination has run bone-dry. The women in my head have deserted me, and those on the screen of my laptop are just so thin and whatever. Running another bath, I grab a beer and attempt some writing, but all I can think about is the time I went on holiday to Somerset as a kid. There was a zoo with a dog that followed me around everywhere, and when my parents told me I couldn’t take him home, I cried and attempted to kick my dad in the shins to show my displeasure. The zoo was right by the beach, or at least it is in my mind’s eye. Upon a hill, I sat with the dog, this little black and white border collie, stroking him for what felt like the entire afternoon until I was dragged away. And then comes junk food to ease my blues and it’s fried chicken and pizza and crisps and as I’m lying there my sadness shifts so much so that I forget the need to write. It’s like this for the best part of an hour, and the music on the radio helps me feel like there’s nothing to fear. But then as soon as I dry myself off it’s back to square one. Poking my willy while shaking my head at the man in the mirror, my useless body appears so weak compared to my fantasy life that I move from beer to wine without even thinking. My bones ache, and each and every one of the grey hairs in my beard mock me without shame. They have no respect at all. Closing my eyes, I see endless doors and mirrors and then the glow of her flesh followed by the scent of her neck. She is eternal, and when I’m feeling infinite, there’s no better dance. Lighting a cigarette, the storm outside rages and grows stronger until the windows begin to shake. I should really check the time but can’t be bothered. Instead, there’s woeful masturbation and yet another bath to wash away the muck that’s accumulated beneath my foreskin. Maybe I’ll watch one of the Halloween films. The seventh one, perhaps, and while Michael Myers is slashing away with his stainless-steel cock, I’ll write about her beauty, and how even after so long, I’m still trying to find that version of her that’s in love with me.

A Journal for Damned Lovers Volumes 1 & 2 on Amazon.co.uk

A Journal for Damned Lovers Volumes 1 & 2 on Amazon.com

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