Anxiety
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Piers and mirrors and fast food wrappers and hair clips and dead ends and cigarettes that bounce in the road and your smile and yesterday and the day before that and the day before that. Teaspoons of English desperation while standing in line waiting to pay for your shopping and a terror attack in… Read more
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Made a video. There’s talk about what it means to keep going when it seems like a fruitless endeavour, Albert Camus, stuff, and two readings of pieces taken from the second volume of A Journal for Damned Lovers. The pieces in question are The Destructors, and She Glows. A Journal for Damned Lovers Volumes… Read more
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Buzzing bees and the distant memory of feverish belly rubs. Itchy fingers that would glide around her navel as she kicked her legs waiting for me to do my thing. Stood there unzipping myself, I’m lost in her image and it’s kinda painful and yet the lust she brings makes me feel like a child again.… Read more
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When I awake, cold daylight touches my bleary face. It’s most unwelcome, and so I roll onto my side showing my contempt at its presence. There were dreams about ladders and rooms and hallways with yet more ladders and torn curtains the colour of lost love. She had appeared in one of the rooms, and… Read more
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No lousy poets, and no talk about love, either. No mention of the future or empowerment, just coffee and toast and the emptiness of the morning after the night before. Forget romance, all I want is for you to cradle my bones and keep me safe for a while. Wrap me up in black… Read more
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Made a video. There’s talk about how I approach the subject of ‘truth’ within my writing, and life in general. There are also readings of two pieces taken from the second volume of A Journal for Damned Lovers, which is now available to purchase from Amazon. Those two pieces in question are Werewolves of… Read more
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Wiping my face and sucking on a cigarette, I glimpse a lynching on the streets of a Brazilian Favela, and the sight of man’s inhumanity to man is enough to take my mind off how much I want to see her suffer. Well, at least for an hour or so. As some slum kid… Read more
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The glow of angel eyes and the scent of lemon drizzle cake that reminds me of her mum’s old place. A car ride to a strange town that still contains her ghost and where the air tastes like the strip of flesh behind her left ear, the area I rest my nose against while… Read more
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Drink some beer, listen to Jeff Buckley, and stab yourself in the chest until you feel something. Those are my three tips on how to become a better writer. When you shimmer and pulsate, mutilate your heart, and then, once you come alive, begin work on destroying your mind. Disturb yourself until being disturbed is… Read more
Author S. K. Nicholas 