We watch the original Amityville Horror and as the opening scene plays out I spasm with each gunshot until I shoot my load then twitch and groan while making no attempt to wipe myself clean. She complains but I’m too lazy to be anything but myself. Kids are shot and there’s a ghost who blows wind and there are flowers that resemble her naughty bits and when I close my eyes I see some god or other with a hipster beard choking himself to death like David Carradine. You know, the guy from Kill Bill. They found him in a cupboard or something. Like Anne Frank or something. When Rod Steiger appears on screen I admire his acting sensibilities. It’s that bit where he’s locked in the room with the flies. You can see the veins in his head throbbing and the sweat pouring down his face and it’s a real horror show but I want it to go further. I want to see him fisted to death by the devil himself and then for a poltergeist to rupture his anus so his insides plop onto the floor between his legs like sausages swimming in gravy. Imagine the blood. Imagine the smell. If I’m not careful, they’ll nickel and dime me to death. If she keeps on pinching me, I’ll spit in her face and shave her head while she sleeps. I am not a ballerina. I am not a man who knows what he’s doing. Tits n beards and varicose veins like smoked vines on an antique mirror. Bare feet on a wooden floor and an invisible pig that tickles its clit as humans do what human do. It’s 3.15 and we’re sniffing glue in the bushes near the garden shed. I’ve got a semi and she’s rubbing salt into her teeth. The pain makes her come alive, and then it makes her come. On a bed of leaves and then within my arms I place her on the mattress and take photos of her pussy. She’s got one that spreads so wide, and when she puts her fingers in and widens it as far as it will go, I chew her down to the bone. Chevrolet. Bordeaux, and the painted hips of a brunette pretending she’s still seventeen.

A Journal for Damned Lovers UK

A Journal for Damned Lovers US

Anthology UK / Anthology US