Us – S.K. Nicholas

There’s junk food in my belly and a book on Ian Brady in my hand. Blinking my eyes, the pages are stained with sweat and splashed with spit. Remember when I would take you from behind and how I’d lean over and tell you to turn your face and look me in the eyes? How I’d get you to open your mouth so I could let a stream of saliva drip onto your tongue? You don’t? Well, shame on you. Somewhere in my mind, the smell of stale beer drifts to me across playing fields. It’s autumn, and the leaves are crisp and crumble in my hands before falling to the floor like confetti. There’s a chill kick in the breeze that pains my face whenever I shave. There are bus journeys and newsagents that sell sweets and magazines with free toys attached to their covers. There are coffee shops and pet stores and underpasses where children from nearby schools paint pictures of the world they live in. After a drunken night out in town with friends, I walked home alone and took a leak in that underpass, and as my yellow stream of piss splashed the colourful buildings they had painted, I laughed until my stomach hurt. That book on Ian Brady, I keep it in my bag and read it in the shade of trees and weeds far from the presence of others. His voice is one of existence, and as such, it reminds me that I exist. In silence is where I grow, and yet in your arms is where I’m alive more than ever. I’m not sure how that works, and that’s part of the problem. There’s a cigarette to ease my troubles and to make my head spin. There’s a song that connects us even though so many days have been and gone in between our last kiss. For some, the meaning of words is a thankless one, but for me, God is in every letter. This poetry. This sense of glory. There is nothing that comes close save for the image of you leaving footprints on fresh snow, or the taste of your neck as we do our thing while trying so hard to resist the breaking of dawn. And to think of all those buildings where our ghosts dance in silence, and to think of those fields where I would carry you because it was too muddy and you didn’t want to get your shoes dirty. Those dead cigarettes of mine, they are still there somewhere, along with those empty bottles of wine I would fling into the mouth of the quarry. And that hairclip you lost- that too is there. Everywhere we go and have been, there are artefacts that hold so much meaning the rest will never be able to fathom. What’s gone is not lost, and what’s not lost is with us every step of the way.


[S. K. Nicholas is creator of  myredabyss.com and author of A Journal for Damned Lovershis first novel. He is a brilliant writer and a member of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective. To learn more about S.K. and A Journal for Damned Lovers read Jasper Kerkau’s interview with S.K. and his review of A Journal for Damned Lovers.]

Climbing Up the Walls

S. K. Nicholas

girls-555667_1920

Through the woods and through the seas, I walked and swam lost to the world and everyone in it, and then there came a day when I put pen to paper, and lost I was no more. There was a time when I kept myself locked up and boarded shut, but the more I learnt to be open the less I felt like giving up and the more beauty I recognised in myself and my surroundings. It’s there for everyone, and yet how funny it is now to see those who are as I used to be. They just float around unaware of anything that doesn’t fit into the confines of their tiny lives. They exist within themselves and nowhere else, and even when they try to make a change, they make no effort in acknowledging who and what they really are. To be who you need to be, you…

View original post 301 more words

‘ This mess we’re in ‘ – Collaborative – S.K. Nicholas & Samantha Lucero

 

   the lights are always on now, no one ever sleeps.

   i am one of those dreamless alien lights; one of those nobody’s cradled in the teeth of a high-rise window. my building’s a fang that pierces an eye of god. i loved you more because you turned away from me.

   i stare at my reflection until i become the memory of you; until i am become death and stones in pockets, and the formless outside in the velvet dark. you, the ghost that rushes in the corner of my eye, the reason i wear lace when it rains. i’m trying to read your mind, wherever it’s gone, but i can’t. i try to unearth the sandalwood smear of you on my walls and in between my fingers, but you’re not there. i’m not there either, not anymore.

   and so i’ll go to the hudson where they sell fire for your throat when you can’t weep or scream, where there’s bad news in the laughter and they find you floating the morning after.

   this mess we’re in will be over before it can begin.

   With a rock in my hand, I lay you down and taste the sweetness of your lips. I make you pretty and breathe in a scent that tickles me just right. With my fingers around your throat, I squeeze them tight and tell you that I want so much to believe. Among a bed of roses in a part of town others have no need to tread, I watch over you as the sun is replaced by the milk-white moon that makes you look like a porcelain doll my sister used to own. You, my beautiful secret. You, my only regret. You, the only one who knows me for how I am. Sit with me a while and hear my reasons. Give me a little time to tell you how this came to be. Speak some truth to heal these sins. Say something that will ease our passage to a place we were never meant to resist.

   With a rock in my hand, you move with such speed. Like a cat, you twist and turn as I stumble trying so hard to make it known that despite my deeds, I am indeed a good man. But the more you fight against it, the harder it is. The more you move away the closer I come until the only way I can make you understand is for you to see a part of me I try so hard to hide. Hitching up your skirt and sliding down those tights, I smear your lipstick and kiss your throat. Touching you where I feel God the most, I whisper to you knowing there will be no answer. Pulling your hair and sinking my fingers into the ground beneath your head, I hear no birds. I sense no movement at all as the world we used to know turns without us.

   This mess we’re in will be over before we know it.

   i could be the smooth arms of angrboda.

   i could hunt the heat lost in you somewhere like a tremble of life, find the skeleton key that unlocks all locked doors. i could keep one dying secret down in flames. i could birth in kerosene the chained wolf-child, your half-dead maid, an immense snake that cradles the sea. we could be the myth. we could be the end, for fragments like us to fit in life’s hands, full of dirt.

   i’m spit miscarried on grass, i’m all the things i thought, except the thing i could’ve been. i’m lost in my head, and you want me here. swallowing all six red seeds, I still starve in spring. i like it in the dark, with you believing, and you want me to believe in good men, when they would bury vestals alone with a lamp. leave me on a road that i can hitch hike to hell on and think, think… !

   think about a time in red converse. stepping on your toes just to get a close up, listen low so no one else can hear, fuck them, late night in a leather jacket and a pin with a gold tooth and vampire fangs. warning label. 2 packs of american spirits until we’re dry, and anne boelyn’s ghost in the tower of london. a grin of blood they never found on the wall. hell can be real. it’s here; but your face in my hands, watching me cry, that’s worth it.

   “time is a flat circle.”

   if we have one moment that matters,

   this mess we’re in can happen over and over again.

   With a rock in my hand, I use the other to cradle the base of your skull. You used to be my woman. You used to be my girl, but you just wouldn’t be tamed. I never wanted to clip your wings. No, I never wished to see you like that at all, but you never gave me a choice. I could’ve been your man, could’ve been that someone to watch over you when you needed a friend. I was here to give you all of this, yet you went a different way. You gave yourself to those who know only how to betray. It should never have come to this, but what was I supposed to do? Just allow it? Just let you fall further from grace? I’m not a monster, I’m a poet, and all I ever wanted was for you to know it. It was your choice to make.

   With a rock in my hand, I dig the soil with the other. You speak to me but it’s too late. I’ve made up my mind. And yet this isn’t the end. You are the seed that shall be planted. You are the nucleus of what I shall become. You will be mother and lover, and as I lay you down and watch you grow, the past and the future are already dancing on the same page. You have this voice but it needs to be silenced so I can hear what you have to say. You have this beauty but I need to cover it because others will surely come and attempt to sniff you out yet again. Y’know, I’ve never been this open with anyone but you. Never had the chance to be so close. It’s not how you wanted it, I’m sure, but with time you will understand, I can feel it in my bones.

   This mess we’re in gives birth to everything.


S.K. Nicholas is the man at a haunted hotel, alone on a snowy night, trying not to have a drink at My Red Abyss, and Samantha Lucero is the crumbling, lone grave on a hill poking out like a little rotten tooth at Six Red Seeds. ]

 

Castles in the Sky

S. K. Nicholas

close-up-1866841_1920

Kisses on your belly and my tongue doing stuff your mother knows all about but won’t ever say. Fingers on your thighs as you lie there speaking of what hurts with no intention of making a change even though you know it’s all down to you and no one else. You can travel far and wide, and yet you can never escape your own skin. You can take as many lovers as you like, but never will they keep you as you wish to be kept. There’s autumn in your eyes and a forest in your heart. There’s a swan you call your own and a pathway to the past you try so hard to deny that just aches to walked. Penetration. A doorway made of light. A cigarette to link us as the years come undone like the ties that bind to that which we have no need of. I…

View original post 199 more words

A Big Nothing. -S.K. Nicholas/A Journal for Damned Lovers

ffec563094728e00877d672de31b8027

Big Nothing.

They say I’m not romantic, that I’m distant and distracted, but my love shows itself in many different forms. They tell me that I’m cold, that I don’t know how to connect. My defense is that it’s them- it’s them that can’t connect to me because they’re not open to the ebb and flow of my myriad ways. Actually, no, it’s me. I confess. I’m far too strange for those who happen to cross my sullen and maudlin path. Smoking my cigarette, I contemplate my actions but grow bored within the minute. Maybe sooner. My attention span isn’t great at the best of times. There should be writing, should be declarations of love, and yet I keep thinking of all those roads from my childhood that don’t exist anymore and the names of random galaxies I looked up on Wikipedia the other night after polishing off the rest of that red wine I’d been refusing to drink because white is just so much sweeter. Near where my grandparents lived in Lewsey Farm, there was an area of marshland that used to terrify me back when I would stay with them during the holidays as a kid. Not sure why it got under my skin, because it was all fenced off and secure and there was no chance of ever stumbling in. Yet for many years, I just couldn’t help but worry that one day I was going to find myself in a terrible predicament. As the wine does its thing and the wheels in my brain begin to spin, I feel a thought coming on. Y’know, even though we barely speak, maybe we could pay the place a visit? One evening when you’re not too busy wanting to break my bones, and it’s not too cold, we could take a drive up and slip through a hole in the fence before exploring each other’s bodies? I’m having trouble remembering the exact shape of your breasts, and every time I try picturing them I get these nosebleeds that just won’t quit. Every time I close my eyes and taste your lips, there’s a flavour that just won’t shift. It’s one of the skittles, maybe the blue one? Yeah, that’s it. You’re a blue skittle I want to suck and chew beneath a blood-red moon as the ground beneath us swallows us whole until there’s nothing left but our giddy laughter that rattles through the streets like the screams of some long-forgotten knife fight back in the summer of ’92.


S. K. Nicholas is creator of  myredabyss.com and author of A Journal for Damned Lovers, his first novel. He is a brilliant writer and a member of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective. To learn more about S.K. and A Journal for Damned Lovers read Jasper Kerkau’s interview with S.K. and his review of A Journal for Damned Lovers.

Adult Swim-S.K. Nicholas/A Journal for Damned Lovers

S. K. Nicholas

forest-2165911_1920

When I’m tired and want to be alone, I go to a forest no one else knows to read my books and sit in silence at one with nature and all the gods that ever existed. Perfectly still with my back resting against a tree, the animals come and go telling stories about how they see her at night among the undergrowth looking up at the moon. She’s often nude, they say, and as she slips in her fingers and curls her toes and her lips tremble in delight at the pleasures she finds within, the earth beneath her body becomes sacred and holy, and when I visit in the days following, I ask them where she was last so I can eat the soil that came into contact with her body and feel at one with all things. There are magpies that have tasted her milk, and mice that…

View original post 163 more words

Black Tights-S.K. Nicholas/A Journal for Damned Lovers

S. K. Nicholas

wall-175686_1920

Black tights, she wears black tights and her legs cross and uncross beneath the table as we wait for our food. It’s Waggamma’s on a Friday night after work. I’m drinking bottled beer while she sips a cup of green tea. The evening’s young and while her body speaks to me in a language that may or may not be Latin, the rain outside washes away our fears. Those curls of her hair- they could be symbols relating to some higher power, or perhaps they offer clues to what mood she’ll be in when I bite her neck in the back row of the cinema after we’ve finished our meal. Those breasts she pushes together whenever we lean forward and kiss- they could just well be the meaning of life, and as much as I’m the dramatic kind, I’m not exaggerating. When our fingers link together as she recites one…

View original post 188 more words