I’m not the proper conduit for your method of self-expression. Maybe you could mark me with your magic ink; big bold lines of black up and down my bod. Maybe you could slice me open and colour my blood with your crayons.
But this much I do know: you’re lovely to look at, and hard to hold.
I like fast hard hits that come quick and plentiful. That’s how I like you, the way you hit so hard.
Me, I’m a fountain of silence. A babbling brook with nothing to say. I’m the heat of lava and cool of ice and I’m coursing through your veins like I’m a racecar and you’re the track.
Let me know you were here. Kiss me so hard it leaves a scar. Don’t quit while I’m ahead. Don’t quit while I’m giving head. Don’t quit when I’m getting held back, or shoved forward, or made to dance and sing like somebody’s trained dog or a whore.
I want to be respected and admired and held and loved and treated well and filled up with light like one of those serial killers who orgasms as the blade goes in. I want to be depicted as a god, full of lightning, and remembered as a flawed dolt, full of nothing.
You and me and you and me and you and me keep going around and around and around, and we keep coming back and back and back to these same ideas.
Something between us.
Like a slab of shattered glass in the bed.
Empty tea cups.
She distracts me with her memory.
She rides a bus into the sunset.
She bursts into a billion different kinds of multi-coloured life.
She kicks me in the teeth.
It’s not intentional -
But everything I love -
She has a houseful of homework. I have a need to tidy and keep my head down.
Leaving the apartment is harder on me these days. The smell of fresh spring air feel like bleach burning my skin.
If the Earth were a big blanket, I could pull it up over my head. I could sleep beneath the stones like a billion big worms grouped together.
Me & my lover wear bullet-proof masks and drive around picking fights with fat teenagers. Me & my lover suspect that we’re from the future, and just can’t remember how we got here. My lover & I have guns that shoot stars and knives that can cut a fire in half.
As we start down our path, my legs feel weak. My knees are full of sand. There’s a gunshot in my spine, and I’m using the pain to drive myself on. There’s doubt in my heart, and I’m using the fear to drive myself on.
I’m tired. Anti-social. Up to no good, and no use to anyone.
I want to turn up the heat, until we start to bubble and pop. I want to see us dying from intense heats. I want to feel your skin starting to scorch as we push up close against each other and whisper sweet nothings of pain and lust into each other’s minds.
I set out walking, with a different boot from a different pair of boots, on each foot. I hold my breath, and I worry a little when I hear her car getting closer. I wince, and reach for the gun she stole back when we were going to be in love with each other forever and ever.
It takes me eight lifetimes to make my way back to Highway 61, but when I finally get there, there’s blood in my teeth, hunger in my belly, and a readiness to get the killing done wherever the blood hits the road.
Look it up and down, that girl coming at us from a distance off. She’s dripping in interesting ideas I shouldn’t be entertaining, but I can’t help it. She’s just so fucking engaging. I’d engage her in a second.
I’m going to break your heart.
I’ve got the hammer all picked out.
I know just where to hit it.
And I know what to do with the pieces when I’m done.
I’m going to batter your heart the way you beat up my emotions.
I’m going to swallow until it’s done.
I move towards the crying,
Lydia close at my back. That feels good right? My partner watching out for me? With the murky mud and the mysterious mystery, it felt like we were maybe in the midst of a movie about the war in Vietnam – the war in the 60’s, the cool war, the fun one, the one they make the exciting motion pictures about. Where people say things like “Yay though I walk through the valley of darkness I shall fear no man for I am the meanest motherfucker in this valley”. That’s what this reminded me of, just for a moment. Deep in unknown territory, surrounded by strange locals, dripping in wet soil, your fellow soldier at your back, alone in the unknowable mystery of the jungle of human misery and misdirection…
We were lovers.
But that was another world.
And before the bitch had learned to shoot a gun.
Waiting for saving.
The computer chu-u-gs, and I make like an angry ape to keep up.
My thoughts hitting me at a billion senseless moments an hour.
My world an angry chainsaw, fretting and start itself in the night.
My tea is growing cold.
We hold our breaths, and wait for the ships to come down.
We know we’re about to be enslaved, enraptured, ensnared in a mess far greater than our own potential to survive, but….
But their ships are very pretty, and all lit-up from within. We’d suffer any indignity, just on the off-hand chance that we might get invited to the party.
From across the city, the fireworks look like a series of 8-bit explosions, burning away the buildings.
Fruit flies are buzzing around my coffee cup like alien starships orbiting a new source of information and energy. They want to steal what’s mine, and leave their poop all over everything. This is why nobody likes their neighbours.
Outside beautiful super-models are sunning fake breasts that are nearly as large as the sun itself. Perfect geometric spheres, with nipples. Skin that quivers when the girls giggle. Eyes so wide and deep that they seem to shiver with bad ideas.
She wants to invite me into her bed, but I dunno if there’s room in there for her and me and my ego.
I got so many personalities even my masturbation register as an orgy. There’s strangers up here in my head, touching stuff that doesn’t belong to them and striking up conversations with echoes.
She’s so slick it’s sick. Sickening, like a bad ride on a boat or a stab from the tooth of a dangerous snake. She entices me with a phrase and that phrase is: all I want is a little more.
A little more mouse and a little less house. We’re sneakers, climbers, drifters, amoral gods and goddesses. We’re writers without form and liars without an audience.
She comes in close to me and I whisper back: