Countered by Jimmi Campkin. This is a memorized photo, folded and hidden in a wallet…wishing desperately to forget, but unable to let it go.

jimmi campkin


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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