Sweet- S.K. Nicholas/A Journal for Damned Lovers

Yeah gone lick her neck an’ when she roll about the bed I take her little fingers an’ slid em in my mouth an’ when she smile showing dem milky teeth I touch her face letting her know she be mine an’ me be hers an’ there’s this music on the screwy radio that lift me higher an’ higher an’ when she take off her clothes I jus’ sit there touching myself knowing I’m low but she be heaven yeah she heaven cast in orange sunlight an’ dust an’ when I push her legs apart she squeeze her nip nips an’ stick her tongue out at me an’ when I feel how wet she is it’s like life touch me somehow like I alive but ain’t no time to think cause she grab my ear an’ push me down yeah she make me eat her sweaty mush mush while she spread her fingers through my hair like I spread her lips an’ when I lick she grip an’ twist me like she wanna cut me an’ see blood so red like these lips I suck sticking in stained fingers all the way in to the knuckle so she arch her back an’ wiggle her toes yeah she wiggle her toes an’ chew ghosts an’ when she kick her feet the electricity come tingling through her spine like life be fine an’ when we clean up an’ go for food in some greasy spoon we eat chicken doused with salt an’ talk about Ghostbusters 2 an’ that river of slime an’ I tell her it’s like her bits an’ she says bits? an’ I’m like yeah your bits an’ her lip curls an’ she grins kicking my leg under the table an’ just like that I know she dig me an’ I dig her for she ain’t no ordinary soul cause she know the stuff that need to be seen an’ she see it even when they say she can’t an’ that’s why I love her an’ we gonna do this all on our own yeah we do this all by ourselves so there I go leaning over the table an’ here she come right back at me an’ when we kiss I feel her smiling ‘gainst me so I lick the grease off her chin an’ press my fingers into her glowy skin an’ she look me in the eyes calling me her sweet an’ life be fine yeah life be jus’ fine.


S.K. Nicholas is the creator of Myredabyss.com, as well as author of two novels A Journal for Damned Lovers Vol 1 & 2. Both of these books are available on Amazon. Additionally, Nicholas is a member of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective.

Reflectors. – S.K. Nicholas

You. Her. She. The bottle and a banshee and a priest. A will-o’-the-wisp and the gleam of painted lips all puckered up and ready for the kiss. No poetry and then a little poetry. No women and then your image that comes sauntering into view behind the back of my blacked-out eyes. In schools, they preach hide the soul, and then work comes along and drills it in a little deeper. But art liberates, and good art is the answer to all that ails us. So maybe take me by the hand and walk these streets with me until we can’t feel our feet, yeah? Maybe if you want you’ll come along with me on a journey someplace strange until we can’t remember who we were to begin with, yeah? Maybe you’ll let me want you, and the more my heart burns as a result, the more you’ll see that these visons I preach are as real as it gets. I ain’t proper and I ain’t well, and this mouth is far too quiet for its own good, but in my bones, there’s darkness and more darkness and this darkness comes as easy as the sleep of reason the rest of them try so hard to deny. There are butterflies mixed with sleeping pills and your trimmed pubic hair I run my tongue over even though the pain itches me something rotten. There’s dust on your windowsill and coffee in your belly and wonder smeared all over your pretty little chin of which I bite and chew until you beg me to stop. Chrysalis and fire. June bloom and fairground highs and the smell of cotton candy mixed with hotdogs as lovers stand on the brink. That first kiss. That first touch when fingers long to creep. Those brown eyes and autumn hearts- the two things I seek more than anything. But only God can make a tree, so who I am? My reflection and your reflection, so many reflections and all these reflections that keep on reflecting, oh, how I want them now. So many obsessions and afflictions and addictions and sensations and I wanna feel them all. Let me mirror you and then mirror me back until we’re mirrored through and through. Let these reflections keep on reflecting until we screech and howl and our words dissolve and what’s left is but a reflection that keeps on reflecting, over and over again.

 


 

[S.K. Nicholas is the creator of Myredabyss.com, as well as author of two novels A Journal for Damned Lovers Vol 1 & 2. Both of these books are available on Amazon. Additionally, Nicholas is a member of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective.]

Sunday Reading: A Journal For Damned Lovers Volume 2 – S.K. Nicholas

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Just got my copy of A Journal for Damned Lovers Volume 2 in the mail. Only a quarter of the way through, but it is a fitting sequel that does not disappoint. S.K. Nicholas speaks the language of the gods.

Please pick up a copy and LEAVE A REVIEW!

Check out Nicholas’ brilliant site.

‘Far From Any Road’ – Collaboration II – S.K. Nicholas & Samantha Lucero

When I looked into your eyes that time not long after we first met, I told myself that if I was given the chance, I would go ahead and do it. And such a thing would really impress you and make you want me even though I was just a zero.

Because the black light has been here since the beginning.

When I first discovered what you were in the early hours of the morning while drunk and on the brink, you reached inside of me and brought me back. Sounds melodramatic, I know, but before I found you it was as if I were the only one and that being a zero was all I was good for.

And it’s been burning a hole for so long.

When I swallowed what you had to say, I found a truth that had been denied me my entire life by those who had never even pretended to care. In that gaze and in your hand, there was a woman I could call mother and lover unlike any other that had come before. I could feel it in my bones and in the cold night air down every street that had housed your ghost.

And that’s what brought us together.

Whenever we want, we can be without form, for our images have long since been removed along with all traces of what remains of our former lives. This vision we share, it’s of being at one with nature with no need for the insects that spend their days doing whatever they can to cling. And this nature- it’s our drink and our line of coke. It’s our needle and hand around the throat. Through its influence, we can be both pleasure and impulse.

It spoke to us when we were children.

Together, we are bitemarks and Nietzsche spinning in fields that are empty of life but full of the essence of who and what we really are, and this is why we roam far from the useless crowd doing only what we can do. This is why we seek the limits that are forbidden because only there do we come close to taking a glimpse through those doors that offer perception where the rest offer only cheapness and the drip drip of ideology that pleases the many but disgusts us.

It put the images inside our heads while we slept.

In each and every letter, and in each and every thrust of our hips we know we are nothing and yet we revel in the control that passes between us. When it lingers in our breath, we take a bite out of each other and in our kiss, we are demons writhing in the sands of Gomorrah looking for kicks that extend beyond time and space. In our flesh, we are bound to bodily delights, but what we are is something pure and something more.

It showed us the door we were both seeking.

They wouldn’t even know where to start looking, for those that have seen us at our most beautiful have long since gone to where we too will go, but only when our bones can no longer take the weight of our souls. Beneath a blanket of stars and as naked as we were born, we sink our fingers into the soil to touch the faithful departed.

And it showed us how to find it.

These are our footsteps, and these are our secrets that will carry in the wind long after the two of us have left this place behind. But we’re in no rush, for there’s so much more that we can do. I hope you agree with what I’ve had to say, because this whole thing makes me feel like God.

Yes, but who’s like God? ‘My world was christened in a stream of milk.’

Was our world blessed with crowns of barbed-wire thorns, in sheltering the quiet soil like corpse worms gone moon-cold, till the blue water left and dried the hot skin. The air paused like Sunday’s pastor during angers sermon, saliva-foam huddled in the corner of a mouth; for effect, for suspense it stayed and spat, baptized the world in a pool of breast milk, they said, and it tasted like its own doom.

We can become a laugh sipped in a cup that we share, dumped over the overpass of whirring cars onto ghostly windshields like scarecrows, become the bellowing storm rattling ribs in darkrooms where smiles like ours rest alone like dreaming tigers WHO once wanted to be warm like wolves in snow packs, but were crowned in that barbed-wire, bred into a dying lung. Let’s BECOME the eye; I was the trapped eye in the wall, in the bones smoking at 3am, up with the red sky in a silky morning sliding down a pole and a thousand other pieces of people we’ll leave behind. Only fighters left alive, no lovers.

OUTSIDE I want the wild like glad animals in oily furs crave flesh, which taste a sliver of hare-blood in the breath between their teeth. I want to sip at eagle feathers in an old Norn’s horn, palms heart-lines engraved in heart-lines, mirror-image superstitious we can press together like funeral-flowers between pages of our favorite books, in passages our failing lives desire never to forget, but will. We will be the lavender and the rose, and then the pink gum turned black on the pissed-on sidewalk.

Or we will be the slender fingers of rain that ooze from the skies through seams in the clouds, like cold memories left unthawed from asteroid belts. Be drunk on watery soup for winter rituals, hummingbird songs, and rush to hear the tight-lipped drums of braided tribes our shivering northern ancestors once followed to 9 worlds. You say let’s be without form; I say let’s erase form, Voltaire, physical pleasures are fleeting, they die out; it’s the delight, delight of the heart that matters? Or the withered husk in a mortar ground with graveyard dirt and hag-spit, where a heart could’ve lived and died, but did both backwards. We are all alone, born to die, born to live, to die. Our wailing birth-mothers knew this, my mother, your mother, the all-mother in a room that’s a pennyroyal cage hung upside down to dry for spells for little girls’ mistakes, that’s a star pulse, that’s a whisper in a place I wish I knew the noise of still. When next you see the mirror folding into itself, the steaming woman heart-shaped in the glass, remember, she is life or death, a mask.

THEMSELVES
ARE
TRULY
SET
FREE

Who will see the tears and dirt that fill my mouth with mud when I smile, or the heartbeat living behind my right eye that could kill me in a blink, but you. Winter never stays long enough, and summer never ends. And we walk until our clothes fill with steam, or I’m the steam now, and my clothes are just anyone, or maybe I’m you anyway, and I could be anyone but you. Or we could just be me. I could conceal just one dusty memory of you when I die someday, pin it against velvet with my last breath, let it glow like the last neon day of a Luna moth. If I could live with it, I could live forever. In a fluttering trance, a twitching shadow, where there’s no form, no image, no mirror, no hands, no mothers.

Yes, but who’s like God? I wasn’t christened in a stream of milk.


 

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. ]

Shell Beach – S.K. Nicholas

In the boot of your car, there are several bottles of wine and a shovel of which we use to bury our secrets with because the world has no place for the likes of us. In your pocket, there are filters to block out the voices of those we once resembled, filters your childhood self would be shocked and alarmed to see. Much the same as how my younger self would be shocked and alarmed in coming face to face with the abstraction of what I’ve since become. In a field away from prying eyes, I place the blanket on a spot of flush grass and together we admire the unspoilt view of miles and miles of nowhere and everywhere with an ocean of blue sky above us that leads to an ocean of water as my hand slides beneath your top caressing your waist. And then it’s your breasts and then it’s my mouth and teeth on your neck and then you push me down upon the blanket and we roll and rock in ways none of them will ever be able to measure. In the distance, a city rumbles like a belly full of booze and not much else. In the hidden soil, all that we have ever lost is regained with each kiss. This globe is a tiny one, and yet we do what we do as if we weren’t mere humans but entities, like those on the moor up north, y’know, the one where Heathcliff and Cathy play? We taste these kicks and dig our fingers in pretending it’s not how it is but it’s exactly that which is why we’re here, kissing without the need for anyone else to ruin our vision. Your lips are cherry, and the way your hair catches the breeze, it’s a memory of London, and it’s a memory of paint on canvas and the quietness of my life before you made yourself known. We were always meant to find each other, and we were always meant to come undone in each other’s embrace. There was no other way. As my fingers touch yours and you whisper those words into my ear, I tell you to close your eyes and picture us stood at the end of a pier throwing stones into the sea. It’s a place we can go where they’ll never come looking. Where our love will remain as pure as the night when everything else crumbles. We discovered it almost by chance, and when it gets too much and we lose sight of things, all we have to do is go back, and our souls align themselves once more.


 

[ S. K. Nicholas is the creator of  My Red Abyss 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

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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…

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