She gives me that look, that look that says, “you intrigue me,” but it says some other stuff too. It says, be careful, I eat lovely little things like you for a midnight snack.

She tries to show me something honest; not damaged, not cool, not put on with myths and fictional speculation. She doesn’t want to be a perfect hologram from the future, she doesn’t want to be an evil robot overlord shooting sparks at the non-believers. 

I want to run off and rob something with you. I want to make you understand something unknowable. I want you to hit me as hard as you can, with your favourite piece of music. I want to steal your car, with you all tied up in the backseat, giggling happily the whole down to Mexico, or south of the navel anyway. 
Any way we can get loose. 

Yeah. I like the way you stare me down. It makes me want to know what else you’ve got to say on the topic. It makes me want to convince you that I’m a bit cooler than I am.

“Poetic revolutionaries,” she remarks, as she sharpens her knives, “are the worst kind. People who’d rather draw a picture of a cop getting shot, who’d rather sing a song about it, instead of just going out and doing the actual deed.”

She just likes to try to get a rise out of me. She says all kinds of stupid shit. It’s part of her psyche-up techniques, like revving up an engine before a race.

I want to judo-chop the universe. I want to do a backflip across the city. I want to see them flinch before I hit ‘em, and I want to ‘em faster than they can flinch. I want to be the thing that goes on that you miss when you blink. 

We’re friendly little shadows, lined with razor-wire. We’re the invisible part of the city that wraps itself around streetlights and under the seats of busstops. We’re the protectors of the righteous and the punishers of the wicked. Call us vigilantes, vampires; call us things gone wrong, doing right by the night. 

Necks snaps and lives get changed. We go out and have a positive impact on our environment, and then we go back home, and wash off all the blood.

“Never forget,” she warns me, all sticky red in the warm of the shower, “how much blood it takes to really change the world.” 

I wannabe Anarchist. 

I wannabe Anarkissed by her. 

Yeah, I want to feel the napalm of her lips against mine. I want to feel her falling against me like a molotov cocktail; a rain of fire, falling down on me.

Yeah, she goes down on me, like a fire. 

She loves me like a broken bottle, she loves me like knives in the street. She puts her hand on my heart like she’s putting a brick through a window. She leans into my life like she’s kicking down my front door. She fills my world like she’s occupying an enemy country.

I wanna be Anarkissed. 

I want her chaos on my chest. I want her sovereignty draped around my shoulders like a cape. Her sovereignty of my soul, of all the best parts of me, whatever they might be.

Anarkissed.
Red lips spelling out bad words; curses and threats.
Lips and tongue that burn.  

Anarchy is every time you share a stick of gum. Every time you help someone with their homework, or with their bags. Every time you hold a door for a stranger. Every wallet returned to the lost and found. Every borrowed cup of sugar. Every driveway you helped shovel. Anarchy is people helping people not for the glory but for each other. Anarchy is for the people by the people; not this ballot-box nonsense. Anarchy is you and me… on the purest of all levels.

- Uncredited Quote (sorry)