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. View all posts by jimmicampkin