Poetry: Selections from Nicks Walker
Satan smokes rollies, Satan smokes straights, Satan doesn’t smoke but he does lobby for Big Pharma, Big Tabacco. Satan is the price of insulin and Satan stayed with young men dying of AIDs when their lovers couldn’t. Satan smokes your straights at the bar and dares you to find good or evil in the thrumming of a magpie or the sticky wet accordion of a rape. Satan tongues hot wet ash into your mouth while the sun still burns and God drowns in the Mississippi River.
The Book of
Pan is all getting his cock out in the trees, in the Portaloos – a midsummer thing with a Potnoodle mouth and a cunt like rain on a tent. Pan tucks his cock and his cunt together into a compression sac and releases them all at once in a kidney sigh. Piss flowing out like an upturned bottle of Lucozade in the back of a van, like a grown man swaddled in a plastic diaper, like a back without a rucksack on it, like the moment between knowing you’re about to die and
Nicks Walker is a queer trans Scot. His allies include yellow, and his enemies include the sun. You can find his objects in Perverse, SPAM, Punk Noir Magazine and elsewhere. He has tricked Bullshit Lit into printing his first pamphlet, Two Vapourwave Classics, in Autumn 2022. He has four rats and autism.