july saw bitter winds. her eyes pressed shut thinking of those times his stale smoky breath made her feel sick & his rugged hands would bruise her thighs. there were always black crows at the window & empty pill cases scattered on needles. she lived in a movie. but at the end, no-one ever came to save her.

the magician.

somewhere on rooftops sat the magician with vena cava eyes & poison on his lips. he hadn’t cried in years but he spent last night in rock clubs with punks on acid & porcelain girls on kaleidoscope podiums. he thought about the ocean & how he had dreamed about finding the most beautiful mermaid & how they would live under rock pools. she would stroke his hair all day & he would bring her shells at midnight. he had hair like bohemian kings & he smoked opium with shaky hands. he wanted to be so many things. a painter, a sculptor or an egyptian lover but he was dying from something in his blood.

maybe loneliness.

he wore silver charms. his mother was a gypsy who said that he was cursed. never to love or to be loved. he would scribble poems. pages sooted & smelling of smoke, sex, some sort of freedom. he would stand on stage every night, pulling rabbits out of hats & ribbons from sleeves. but every night he would quietly sit on rooftops.