I could love you less than storms or anything easy that I have ever done, but you, my hard love, I love you as the moon loves the tides, pulling and pushing for one minute only, for you to see that this life, that our life, could be extraordinary on the hips of a hurricane … Continue reading On The Hips of a Hurricane
I know, she is beautiful; all hot breath and pretty words, but she has starved her demons for a lifetime now, and those motherfuckers are hungry. © Nicole Lyons 2o18
They write stories about women like her, the kind of women who smell like smoke and secrets, taste like whiskey neat and ache, always ache, for last call; the stories that are burned inside of memories and outside of libraries, the kind of stories that make even the driest bones wet and the holiest knees … Continue reading Stories Like Her
Rachy has me in tears this morning.
I take rejection like a winner, spit the blood
from my mouth when you’ve finished
trauma into my lungs, smile through the bruises,
keep your secrets in my throat, along with your name.
I won’t speak you into existence.
My body tapped out but my Spirit’s in the ring, I won’t go down.
Fists don’t need words to speak, shades of you staining my cheekbone, a child’s signature.
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S.K. Nicholas, always so damn brilliant!
Some TV and a hot dog washed down with Cherry Coke followed by images of a car crash on the M1 that pave the way for daydreams involving alluring women with supple hips slithering upon hot white sand and then it’s stray dogs burning on the streets of Moscow and for hours I’m just sat there doing not much of anything wondering why it is I’m so odd. Might do the dusting. Put the vacuum around and get rid of the dust. Dust everywhere. It never seems to shift. My own dead skin, smothering me like an unwanted lover. I light up a smoke then watch The Elephant Man again. Makes me feel sad so I have a few beers and close my eyes thinking about Victorian England and what it must have smelled like. Imagine the filth. Imagine the pubs and the dirty, diseased skin and even dirtier naughty…
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You with the goddess heart and cemetery soul, of course, you are a dragon now. Every ghost you have ever loved has salted the earth with their comings and with their goings again. Breathe, woman, breathe! Wrath and fire will shoo the dead to cultivate the love. © Nicole Lyons 2018
When I was a little girl they spoke of a legend, about a wolf and a hunger, and why I should never wear red, but the moon pulled the tide and I was christened a woman, and the legend was rewritten when I became the wolf in the end. © Nicole Lyons 2018