Hipster Fucks


Crisp sandwiches on a blanket by the sea with tiny dinosaurs pecking at our feet before they fly away in the breeze never to be seen again. Blue waves and a blue sky and your smile so sepia and golden and a part of who I am despite wanting to cut you out of my life so many times because you mess my shit up and such shit does me no good at all. Those birds. This day. The music you listen to on your headphones, and the dirt I rub between my thumb and forefinger trying to imagine how cold it is where the Titanic’s at. The pressure would pop my head in an instant, that’s for sure. Reminds me of what I was told in school as a kid, that’s if Earth were to be sucked into a black hole, it would end up being crushed to the size of a grapefruit. Perhaps it was a lie, but such information still messes with me, so I light a cigarette and hold onto a tree to stop myself from floating away. Looking at you as you sit there listening to your music, you shake your head with a grin and reach out your hand, but I daren’t go to you for fear of being sucked into the stratosphere. Struggling to breathe, my mouth runs dry as you call for me to come on over. Closing my eyes, I try to focus, but it does no good. Death to hipster fucks! These are my last words before letting go of the tree and passing out. There are dreams. Snatches of memories and distorted truth. My old childhood house and the friends and animals that populated it. Family trips to Windsor and rides on red buses through the streets of London on days full of rain and the taste of softmints to take away the hunger of my childish belly. Then there’s the day I first met you, and in particular, the words we exchanged on a spiral staircase, but in this dream, they aren’t the same. Unable to understand the meaning behind it, my eyes open and glimpse yours. You’re cradling my head in your lap while saying my name over and over again in a soothing loop with the sun on your left shoulder. I’m not in the stratosphere. I’m not dead. Putting my hand in yours, you laugh while wiping the beads of sweat from my forehead with the cuff of your jumper. I feel like crying, and so you bring me to your chest keeping me safe from harm until the moment passes. When it does, you offer me another crisp sandwich. Eating it with the back of my head resting against your breasts, I get crumbs all over the both of us, but on this occasion, you say, it’s okay, honey. It’s okay.

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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