suckling at the suture of a hyper-realism like
a colour will pass through your lips
fill up your stomach
like a steak knife, or hot mackerel or
12 o’clock in a piece of glass

12 o’clock
did you know the doomsday clock
is closer to midnight now than it ever has been?
100 seconds away
better get running

you can move
now, but not now
piss yourself
on the floor of the prison they made you
into
I think my kidney is in you, now
don’t make me ask for it back

(please)

hit me
until I forget that I owe you
anything until I forget that
any thing can be owed
hit me until I don’t have nothing but
the cold fish pressing into my hand
like my cold mother’s cheek on the floor hit me

like you own me hit me
like we’re going to be okay hit me
like I’m not a horse and hit me like you’re my
best friend and you’re dead and then hit me like
I am the only one left

who
remembers what it was like to walk to school together



Nicks Walker is a queer bigender Scot.  His allies include yellow, and his enemies include the sun.  You can find his objects in SPAM, Rejection Letters, Warning Lines, Punk Noir Magazine and elsewhere.  He has four rats and autism and tweets @nickserobus