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this is a poem for you and you alone i don’t need to mention your name because you know it’s about you, i just know you do this is a poem and a poem is what i give for a poem is war and peace and stillness and love and rough fucking and where… Read more
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The cunt next door is listening to his shitty drug music again. My disgust for him is primarily born out of the fact that he wears flip-flops, but on a whole, every aspect of his dim life leaves me nauseated, from his constant drug-induced chatter to the sounds he listens to while blabbering with… Read more
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90’s kids drowning in some kinda maelstrom along with trees and Saturday sunshine and chalk drawings in the middle of the road that will stick around for weeks and weeks until September rain comes and washes them away. 90’s haircuts and 90’s bodies now just photographs and ashes and memories that drift like moths… Read more
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this empty bed and the shit loads of dust that keeps covering my stuff no matter how many times i clean and clean and clean before growing bored and desperate opening a beer that turns into two beers that turns into four while listening to the useless cokehead next door talk talk talk for twelve… Read more
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Peeking through an open door, we sit in the park making plans reading magazines that tell us how things will be but things never quite plan out that way, because that’s life, right? We could be angry about how it turned out, but shit happens to everyone, and whether we like it or not,… Read more
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Through these blades of amber grass that twist and turn in the breeze, we peek at those who do such a sleazy job at being what they think it means to be human. For many, they spend their days seeking a version of life that doesn’t exist, but for the likes of us, such… Read more
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Originally posted on jimmi campkin: She sits with her legs out, bent slightly at the knees, back hunched over. Her feet point away from me, so she has to turn to look at my face. Most of the time though she stares at her toes. Sometimes, a little smirk crosses over her lips, but she… Read more
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My fingers touch the tiny shards of broken glass as they glisten in the dirt. They pick them up one piece at a time and place them gently so gently around your sleepy head. Dipping my forefinger into a pool of oil from which my reflection peers from so wearily and drunk, I mark your… Read more
Author S. K. Nicholas 