Way Station



There’s a headache that lasts all day. Tried taking painkillers to ease the discomfort, but they didn’t work, so instead, I opened some wine. Didn’t taste great, but wine is wine, and although the headache refused to shift, in my alcoholic daze everything else felt just right. Watched The Thing. Have seen it before. The vein in the right side of my head is throbbing. I press down hard on it, and a pang of pain flashes through my mind. To make things better, I run a bath. Before jumping in, I think of your breasts and abuse myself. It doesn’t last long. Don’t want it to. I imagine us spitting into each other’s mouths, then me grabbing a handful of your hair before doing my best to work your nipples. As I’m doing so, though, for some reason my train of thought shifts and I find myself stood alone in some park in London. I’ve been there before, I’m sure of it, but I can’t seem to remember. Doing my best to go back to us, I lose sight of things and drift off to sleep. Awaking a few hours later, I have to empty the bath and run another because the water’s gone cold. When I’m submerged, words and visions come and go. Some good. Most useless. Bathtimes remind me of pornography and swimming pools and the womb. Peeling back my foreskin, I wash away the slight accumulation of gunk and then massage some special shampoo into my beard. It’s got eucalyptus in. Which is good, y’know? Closing my eyes, I see your lips and your breasts and feel your heart beating against my chest. You were made from a rib, y’know? You’re an ocean and a dream and a woman and girl and mostly everything that’s in between, y’know? Infinitely better than me, anyhow. Truth be told, not even the words I invest so much time into can save me. In the end, I’ll be fucked all the same, I just know it. But meh, whatever. The wine summons and then condemns. The act of creation saves and drowns and drowns and saves. Maybe if you come around one day, you’ll cut my hair? Maybe if you do, I’ll take a razor to your pussy, and then after it’s all prim and proper, I’ll eat you out until we fall asleep and our bodies are covered with light from the TV. Light that speaks of poetry and boredom and cigarettes and old library books you buy off eBay that remind you of being a kid. The pages of such books are so often discoloured and tatty, but the words keep their meaning. They always do.

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

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

20 replies »

  1. How often we lay between monotony and epiphany, sometimes they are one and the same. Sometimes we just confuse the two and yet there we continue to live, moment upon moment. Remembering, looking to the future. Despairing and full of hope. Thanks for sharing this. It’s simply fantastic.

  2. Words keep their meanings. They always do.
    This is such a great one. I love how you make your readers travel in between these words and your world.
    Awesome and amazingly beautiful.

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