We made love on a big bed of angel-food cake, our sexual fluids sinking into the surface like icing melting in the ocean. We made love like we were in a music video, like everybody was watching and we wanted to make ‘em proud. Make ‘em envious. Make ‘em wish they were you, or me, or a little bit of both.

We went out robbing stores, robbing them of all their conveniences. We stole slurpees, frozen drink treats, down the front of our pants. We filled our pockets with artificially-flavoured ice cubes. She stole syrup, all over her skin.

The cops wanted to stop us, the media wanted to consume us, the public wanted to live our lives right by our sides. Everybody wants to be your friend, when you’re dancing like a killer with knives for a heart. Everybody wants to be your lover when you’re fucking like fiends on fire.

But we were still so still and still so solitary. 

Spinning with ourselves.

Spinning within ourselves. 

It’s something that bursts from the shell of a gothling…

My gods, I suspect, all have agendas all their own. To survive, to be mighty, to be quietly ignored. Tonight I want to be nice, and smooth. Nice and Smooth.

 Angry teenage mutant demigods, clashing hungrily in the sky, looking to get laid or to write their names in flaming letters across the skin of the moon. Kinetic energy radiates out, vibrating glasses and liquids and genders.

Eyes start to glow. Pulses start to race, like blood cells are being compelled by unsavory forces of attraction; gravity lustfully pushing and pulling, like reality is fornicating with its own edges. The masturbation of all space time into a single point; a single point drawn out to reach around forever, twice.

We power up. Shift into battle-mode. We hit the dance floor. Psychic defenses set to annihilate. 

We went out dancing. I woke up with her blood on my hands.

“Did things get violent and weird,” I ask her, “or just romantic and menstrual?” 

She dresses and dances like she just got here from 1982. She looks edgy and electronic, like my grade eleven mix-tape. She sounds like static set to a rhythm and pumped through speakers a hundred feet high. She sounds like a storm blowing in.

“I wish somebody could tell me how I’m supposed to feel,” I tell her as she washes me off her body. She applies me like lipstick, and kisses me off onto her lesbian lovers. 

“I’m never going to leave you alone,” she said, and she made it sound like a threat. 

I’ve finally concluded that steampunk is not my scene. Sort of in the same way that neo-hippies bug me.

 I want to hold true to my late-80’s roots; the punk I play is cyber, straight and simple.

Spare me your tantric handholding and your stoned drum circles; my fantasies bleed liquid chrome.

I don’t need a forest. I don’t require a desert.

I live on city streets, roaming back alleys and foraging in stores. I like city grit, made of cement and urban grime. I like moss on brick walls, and broken glass slivered amongst blades of grass. Grey sidewalks and grey skies, ready to bleed black rain across glowing rows of pulsing the pulsing neon beasts which are strapped atop of storefronts.

Give me a digital datastream to dance within. Give me screens lit up with static, smoke rising up from holes in the streets… give me creatures lined with fake-leathers and real-spikes, with all their unnatural colours and tastes. A spectrum of uncivil society, hidden amongst the ruins of yesterday’s dreams of the future.

I hit him hard, before anything else can be said, right in the middle of those expensive-looking sunglasses. Well, they’re not so expensive now, now they’re just broken lines of metal and cracked lenses, on the ground.

Yeah, I like the way he looks, on the way down to the ground. That look of surprise, that glimpse of blood flying up like sparks from a dying fire.

He goes out like a dying fire. I bounce a boot off the centre of his chest, a solid stomp right atop the solar plexus. I hear him cough angry air, his lungs just soft yielding tissues compared to the harshness of gravity and the earth.

Gravity, the earth, and me. Things that are capable of crushing,
With great indifference.

Aw, I say it’s with great indifference.
But you know me.
I’ve never been indifferent about my own innate cruelty.

Nah, since it’s so hard on everybody else,
It’s the sorta thing I do my best to enjoy.

Yeah, he bleeds all down the street.
And I do my best to enjoy it.  

I notice you’re not around anymore; I notice it as a I go to close my teeth on where I remember your neck as being. 

I still have that photograph you took of your passion-stained handiwork. I still have a fleeting idea in my head of what you might look like in motion, head thrown back, mouth full of words you’re still not quite saying.

I took lots of photographs with, you know, my imagination. 

Every time I look at you feels like a conversation with a loaded weapon. Shotgun metal vibrating in your palms. Ballistics bouncing off your body. 

Kinetic communication. 

This relationship is like a long dark hallway full of bastards to kill. Being in love with you is just like that; it’s like feeling a body slump to the floor, like a pretty girl with a bullet hole in the ribs, like hands around a strong throat as the pulse goes weak. 

Flash-Forward to the future, and I can see you somewhere around me. Gun at your side, something pithy about to drop from your lips, like the pin of a grenade. One of those endlessly purple skies, like a big bad bruise. We stand so that our skins are touching. Then we take aim and fire.

“The future? Like, with jetpacks?”

She wrote herself into my story, with bright hair and scarcely visible scars. 

She came to me, not crawling, yet still somehow on hands and knees. 

She lied to me, a mouthful of my blood just behind her teeth.

She opened me up, just by opening her mouth up wide against me; her lips against my belly, my belly falling open like a cupboard door. My heart opens for her like the damn thing was installed on a hinge, like she should be able to just walk into me and do what she likes. Move furniture. Write her name in smoke and violence against the walls of my body. 

Do you know what I’d let the perfect girl do to me?
Anything.

I’d let her write my biography with two knives and a broken typewriter. I’d let her hold me down in the shower. I’d let her have just the bits of me she wanted, and throw the rest to the birds outside. Big black crows with little hungry mouths.

There’s something about her, something sick and surreal.
She moves unnaturally, like over-animated snakes.

She was my favourite character of all the fictional beings I could’ve ever wanted to fuck.
And she made herself real.
Just for me. 

She wants me thinking about her, when my fingers get to twitching. She wants to be on my mind when I’m thinking things that should either be written down, or entirely forgotten. She wants to get letters from me, letters like the letter “O” repeated over and over and over again. She wants to get letters from me, letters like,

“Dear you,
I’ve been thinking about that glimpse of your body you accidentally showed me the other day, I’ve been thinking about what it’d be like to run across your skin looking for secret treasures and new scars.
I’ve been thinking about the ways you breathe, and how I’d like to influence them. I’ve been thinking about what it’d be like to have you looking me over, looking up at me from the floor, looking down at me as I lower myself into your lap.
Dear you,”

She poses in front of a camera and shows her body to a glass eye. She tells it to tell me things about her, how she flexes and bends, what kind of twitching she does when she feels like typing but can’t.

I’d like her to write to me, but there’s nothing I want to hear except, “I want, I want, I want.” She wants to move me, amuse me. I want to have my appetite aroused. I want to see a sacrifice. I want to fake some intimacy, so as to get a fresh mouthful of fiction or flesh. Fictional fuckery. 

She thinks I’m thinking about taking, and I am. Taking time, taking pictures, taking change from off the side-table as I motion towards the door, and out the room, sneaking across squeaky floorboards as I pull on my raincoat and fall out a window.

Sixteen stories to the floor. I land on the soles of my shoes, and get to running.
She suspects I’m still running after her,
And she’s half-right.  

“Lets just say I’m not super emotionally available, but I do like to dance.”

The first time I went to Spit, I was 3 months into being dumped. It was my first real step out into the world again, in a big public way.

I got to Spit, and I wanted to be a focus. I wanted some attention. But I didn’t know how to get it, and it felt strange to go out hunting for it.

 So I came up with a different game to play.

 I decided that I had some karma to burn off, Karma from relationships, karma from decisions, choices…

 So I figured I’d just be a background dancer, not a main character. Any time people are dancing in a story, the main characters in the movie, the book, the comic, there’s always a billion faceless people, holding the party up in the air by keeping their bodies moving.

 And I thought I might be one of them for a while. I might be a background character in somebody else’s dream.

 And that was how my first Spit went. I burned Karma as a background dancer. I wore away all my old bits, and I sacrificed myself for somebody else’s good time.

 Tonight will be something else. 

Born on an alien world. Born out of blood. Born to kill. Born to die. Here to go.

I miss everything I don’t have easy access to. I notice your absence when it’s quite in the room, when it’s cold outside. 

I’m going to find something that’s not missing. I’m going out to start fires. 

I’ve got the words, but not the rhythm. 

I’m not lost, but I need you to find me. I need you to find my little notes, I need you to try to understand the subtext. I need you to try to figure out what I’m hiding up in here.

She dances across the everything from me. I look out and see the sea. I see my future bride. I see karmic death and rebirth. I see a girl in a pair of shoes with heels that could really crush a man’s self-esteem. 

I wait for her to tell me something, and she writes it in blood, across our bodies. 

I like to think of us as what he said she said about lovebirds; take one away, and the other withers and dies. 

I don’t know how true it is, few things are actually very true as it turns out, but I’d like to think that there’s an aspect of it which carries a certain ring of truth to it, if you want to choose it to be there.

I remember the nights we spent unable to leave each other’s touch. I remember and miss those times. We both need to be reaching for that to happen; it goes past reaching, and far into falling.

I remember the sensation of falling.
So much so that I can’t stand next to the ledge.
Not anymore. 

Your eyes make me think of falling from somewhere very high up.

There’s something about you that makes me think of deep water.
Deep water full of something vast and beautiful and dangerous.

There’s certainly something about you.
It might even be me. 

Stop trying to impress me, and just write me something nice for a change, okay?

Stop trying to think that I’m living somewhere you’re not. The revolution is right outside your window, the revolution of living lives and the revolution of the Earth. The Fucking Earth!

You feel that, baby? That’s the world fucking moving. Fucking. Moving. 

You feel that, baby? That’s me and you. Fucking. Moving.

From a distance off everything looks like dancing, everything looks like a bunch of people trying to get to know each other through acts of concentrated violence and spurts of pure, blinding reason.

Don’t get any in your eyes.

I got you in my eyes, I got you in my target sights. I got you in mind, I got you like a disease swimming in my veins. I got you a present, and this is it: the present. I got you a cookie, but I ate it. I got you a nice idea, and it’s got to do with staying in to have something to eat.

Or words to that effect.

All my words are just to effect you.

This is going to be real magic. This is going to be a real transmogrification. This is going to be an epic example of alchemical magical capacity. This is going to be a conversion  of sound and energy. This is how art turns to science, and back again. This is how we find ourselves, dripping with sweat and puncturing reality with home-made weapons like prisoners born in jail, like birds with broken wings forcing their way impossibly up towards a sky gone bloodshot and hollow.

Somebody shot the sun out of the sky; where it was is a circle of perfect darkness, dripping blood across the horizon. A black hole in the sky is bleeding darkness out onto the atmosphere. 

I think we’ve got ourselves lost but good this time.

“I have friends,” it says on my map, “but I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to tell them. I like to be liked, to be known, to live that’s true and trustworthy and full of jam and magical delights, but what the fuck am I supposed to be these days, if it’s not just some self-created myth? My only mythologies involve sliding sideways and looking up at the world with fangs for teeth and a hunger that feels like a brutal evil thing, the villain of the story, the nasty little possibility of true natures bouncing up against the barriers of mind. I cannot mind. I cannot mind. You cannot let yourself mind.”

Don’t get brought down by the shit that they do. I remember those words like a fake echo that was implanted into my life by government agents working for alien agencies. I’m not scared of their tired old hackneyed shit: There’s nothing I can’t kill with a dance. 

There’s no lie I can’t make bigger and brighter and better.

I’d pay good money just to be your friend, but I’d be your friend just for the physical companionship, which is to say, there’s something about the way you move and smile that gets under my skin like tattoo ink, something that burns and bugs like insect bites.