Womb, Tomb, And Everything Between


In the distance, two lovers entwined (ask me why.)  N has two pairs of pouting lips and walks with exaggerated candour, caught on the cusp of virginal innocence and sexual blooming.  She has a kind of smile, a kind of walk, from hips and lips that have been complimented and now she handles this power uneasily, like juggling a hot plate without gloves.  Blinded and intimidated by a new door opened and the dark light within.  One time, she promises to striptease for me if I’ll only show her mine.  I don’t but she stripteases me anyway, only there’s no teasing.  She takes all her clothes off in the same way she does before a shower, or in a changing room, or at the swimming baths, and then she stands in front of me, naked and tufty below, with a quizzically crooked what now smile and an eyebrow raised half in insouciance and half insecurly.  Nothing happens, except I grasp two handfulls of fleshy arse and lean in for more kisses, because it’s the only sexual thing I know how to do.


Last night I dreamt I was trapped with several people in a large house that had been booby-trapped with bombs.  They were powerful enough to wipe out anyone in the room but not strong enough to destroy the room itself.  The house became an energy of cat-and-mouse panic as explosions went off here and there, seemingly at random, and I found myself one of only a few people left alive, trying to anticipate which room to avoid going into before the next bomb went off, and as our numbers dwindled and our survival became more frenetic, loudspeakers announced the taunts of our captors.  I woke up, having just correctly guessed that the kitchen was about to explode next, and I felt the heat and the wood splinters as I darted out of the room into the hallway outside.


One of my favourite songs of all time is The Sound Of Silence, and not just because it begins with a line that I have experienced so much I want it tattooed on my arm.  It’s because of another line that always takes me back to this very place.  The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls.  Living so long near abandoned industrial units, coloured by the bored and the glue sniffers, I’ve long seen graffiti as expression rather than vandalism.  Even the gang tags as you roll into Kings Cross fascinate me, a world I would never want to be part of.

Jesus Is A Ok Guy!  As we follow the light to…. shopping.


I returned recently to a place I want to be sprinkled after I am dead.  Ironic that it still makes me feel so alive.  Up in the Dramatic North, I’ve climbed up the side of waterfalls, crouched in ancient chapels, ran my fingers through millenia-old carvings and dangled my legs over the edge of cloven valleys.  But my mind still wanders back to five lumps on a small hill, overlooking a flat piece of land.  Where I have some of my happiest memories, both alone and in the company of others.  Speaking of which…


I’ve known this man, S.K Nicholas, for a long time.  Longer than I’ve known anyone except my own parents.  I grew up with him, was influenced by him, continue to be influenced by him.  But most of all, I delight in his mind.  A pair of hopeless romantics turned writers, from broken streets, covered in grass stains and stabbed by rusty nails, swerving the junkies and the liars, ignoring the abuse of the fools, the controls now set for the heart of the sun.  A piper at the gates of dawn, Shine On!




Raishimi may have the unenviable honour of knowing me better than anyone else who walks this planet, seeing me at my creative best and my weakest and tearful worst.  Even after a relationship has ended and is long dead, there are unbreakable bonds – the kind that are sealed when you were both 24 hours from homelessness or fighting against forces beyond our control.

I travelled back to my hometown recently, which is where these pictures were taken.  I’m not entirely sure what I achieved.  My hometown continues to disintergrate, or perhaps it is just changing and I am behind the times.  Perhaps I am that guy who complains that music doesn’t sound like it used to anymore, and there aren’t any bands as good as Yes.  I tried not to wallow in memory.  I deliberately avoided certain places that I knew would catch me out, places and areas that contained milky white globes hovering peacefully, waiting for me to drive or walk straight into them and be imprisoned.  I am trying to look forward, even as I receive rejection letters like ash fluttering from a volcano.  I’m unhappy with my present, and I cannot continue to tunnel my past, so I can only force myself to look towards a vague and undefined future.  An English teacher once told me; the only difference between solitude and isolation is how involved the individual is in the choice.  Up here I choose to live alone and keep myself to myself because the options outside are – lets be kind – somewhat limited emotionally, mentally and geographically.  But seeing the people you adore for the first time in a while you realise how the fences you build can sometimes become too high.

I missed them both before; I will miss them dearly now.



Author: jimmicampkin

Writer and photographer (and occasional other things) currently living in the North East of England. Everything is my own unless otherwise stated. So blame me.

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