Lavender Winter


I’ve climbed the tallest hills to run my fingers through the clouds, but I couldn’t see God.  I’ve drunk a bottle of whiskey and collapsed in my own vomit, but I couldn’t see God at the bottom of the bottle, or on the floor, or the bottom of the sea.

I have these weird dreams; we are in a ball-shaped submersible four miles down and we’re fucking so hard the ball sways through the pressurised black like a pendulum; and then all these weird looking fish with lights in their heads start appearing at the circular windows; and you get self conscious and try to cover your tits with your boiler suit.  But I grab your wrist and I say it’s okay babe; I explain that these creatures don’t know what fucking is, they are too grotesque, they’ve just existed for millions of years, eating whale shit and those plastic hoops for beer cans.  So we go back to it, but I realise you’re just staring at me, and you’re drying up, and when I look at my reflection in the window I can see my head is beginning to light up and my bottom lip is dribbling out from my face like lava down a Hawaiian street.

I wake up with a jolt and I’m soaked so much I sniff between my legs to check it isn’t piss.  I go for a walk and leave you a message with the fridge magnets; leave me when my head lights up. 

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.

3 thoughts on “Lavender Winter”

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