Jimmi Campkin transports me
I’m so tired. I shamble over the ridge, looking down at the town below – faded pink and yellow lights, and the distant shrieks and cries of people passing through an hour’s worth of inebriated contentment with the world. Heels, frocks and stockings. I knew them all once, threw them aside with abandon, fishnets simmering and smoking over a naked lamp. I knew cherry lipstick, greasy hair and morning breath that tasted so sweet to a loser. Now, the words weigh heavy on my eyelids. There’s too many to say and not enough to write. So I turn my back on the town and stumble under a black sea.
I sit down on a lump of stone and look across at a sepia photograph of a landscape I once knew, where wingless birds flitted and buzzed over our heads and you got grass stains on the knees of your tights. …
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