Author S. K. Nicholas

x and i: a novel

a journal for damned lovers vol 1-3

Prose

  • Noir

    dusk, bottled beer glass cities surrounding soft machines, so low love lies bleeding echoes, of future noir a maze of neon graves bright lights, glowing the killing streets, cold like hanging stars skylines, burning with no escape Read more

  • The Only Way There Is

    on sunday mornings when the sun comes flooding in through the window all of my mistakes and all of my regrets shine with a beauty that makes me smile from ear to ear the madness that burns brighter than the sun the sadness darker than the deepest sea it dazzles me completely sometimes, i fall… Read more

  • Behind My Eclectic Eyes

    Skeletal blowjobs. Cracks in plastic flesh spreading to the lonesome trees on the corner of 58th Street. Skyscrapers, oozing all the lust and sadistic dreams you could ever think of. Drinking causes flux, it dislodges boredom and makes softened bones feel real again. Painted women. Evil dripping from the corners of their cute little mouths. Lipstick… Read more

  • Free

    i swam the filthy seas to be clean, to be clean and grew my beard like the trees to be free, to be free Read more

  • My Love Grows In An Ugly Garden

    my love grows in a secret garden long forgotten lost covered with weeds, branches reaching for sunlight with no reply, neglected flowers, buried beneath dead autumn leaves worms, crawling in the shadow of a broken swing it’s an ugly fucking garden, but it breaths like any other all it needs is a little care for… Read more

  • Torture Garden

    In torture gardens, the bodies hang from trees. They swing, and they sway. Singing her name, the sky swallows a handful of flowers. Lipless and sucking, it showers them with saliva. Oranges, daffodils, rolling down the hill to the cusp of her dress. Beneath it, the oceans swell. They circle stars born from her womb.… Read more

  • Songbird

    the sky collapses. falling down. like buildings. bodies. and as the songbird flies. towards the sun. my heart breaks. beyond the war. the war of ourselves. beyond the darkest days. through the fire. thats rages. survivors dying. silver linings no more. everything. crumbles. the agony of a thousand paintings. a million faces. merging. into a… Read more

  • In A Lonely Place

    cities. glass. gunshot wounds red. zygomatic arch. open mouthed nothings. on the corner of. 58th street snow falling. eyes crying rivers of blood. in. new york city   cigarette smoke. desolate. heart shattered dreams. and fragments. of bone. desperately clinging. to last moments skylines leaving. brown eyes. closing always ending. in. dark city   help.… Read more

  • Sunday Afternoon

    Waking up in the afternoon, half the day has already been and gone. It’s warm, but there’s no sunshine. I dreamt of Jackson Pollock, and a taxi driver being shot whilst waiting at a set of traffic lights. His attacker was the passenger sat behind him. He shot him in the back of the head… Read more

  • Soft

    soft, she’s soft like snow a thousand kisses warm as sunshine honey, she tastes like honey making my aged soul feel strangely alive flying like a bluebird not chained to the sky, soft like a pillow of dreams keeping the demons at bay making me safe in her arms, the stillness of love in eyes… Read more