PrettyThings9

Dark water, dark waves. The night is thick. Black rocks and black slip stream, the sound of sea on skin, slick, sucking, soft. The spray whispers and whispers the same sad song. It's not enough, not enough. It is cold and sometimes he imagines the sea watches back, with wet, luminous eyes. Remember, remember. It's too cold, but he doesn't care, watching the sea glide back and forth, he imagines a dark mass amongst darker masses that separates itself and slips back into the sea, hair waving like weed, the smell of salt. He remembers. Wet eyed girl, not soft and sad but hard like sea coal washed by the waves, the scent of salt in her gr

It is easy To forget. And forget that we live. To sink deeper into cloying scents of rose and opiate, A dull suffocation Of silk petals. The days lengthen, the sun rises A candle which never extinguishes And the heady days seem endless Time stands still Stagnates. The dust settles. The paper yellows. The inky ribbon dries and curls and turns to ash. The typewriter is still. The air thickens, condenses, Crystallises, and every movement floats And waves unbroken in dull opium haze. And Then Puncture. The sky splits a seam of silver, and the vaulted clouds Are torn to reveal the infinite bright universe. The rain Ploughs