Death Sun


Long hair, long limbs, long teeth.  I follow, I meander, I stumble…. aimless in your carnage.  I have no purpose beyond your hips, bones and skin that I study like ancient cartographers, as mysterious as the ends of the Earth and as dangerous as typhoons to paper ships.

I worship demons, because I’ve had no divinity in my life.  My hand passes through God, and I’m left with dew sparkles on my arm hair.  I press my hand against your molten skin and my fingerprints melt into your image.  You give me coins for wine, and I strap the empty bottles to my shoulderblades.  I fly into the death sun.

I wake up on damp concrete, surrounded by puddles of my own and others, and you unzip me to release the light.  Your moans echo around the meaningless places – subway tunnels, bus shelters and railway arches.  Empty eyes and gasping sighs, we pound and thrust through the soft culture, trying to find a vacuum where our sounds, voices, laughter and tears will only concern each other and no one else.

I kneel at your long skirt and you reveal three inches of ankle gnarled by scabs and infection.  The boys who nibble you aren’t cleaning their teeth properly.  Over my shoulder, I see the dark shadow of the public school.  Our future, clamped in rotten gums.  I wish you didn’t go there.  You’re too smart to be earning money from the dull and diseased.  You’re too young to be limping.


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.

9 thoughts on “Death Sun”

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