What Else Could You Want Today?
I’m not what she sees when she looks at me; I’m an echo of what she really wants; I’m a subversion of her desires, made manifest.
She takes me on like I’m not her brand of cigarette, but she’ll make do if she must. Yeah, she’ll choke me down with something that looks almost like a smile. She’ll light me up just because she likes to feel something burn. She likes to feel it, as it burns. It doesn’t even have to burn for her.
But I’ll burn for her. I’ll turn myself into dry, chalky ash on her lipstick-stained fingertips. I’ll let her squeeze my soul out, like mud coming up between her toes.
She tells me that she’s in
love with me, but that’s not what I hear. I just see that look on her face, and I know what I’m getting myself into; something I can’t understand or foresee with any relevance.
She’s just something that’s going to happen to me; and happen hard.
How’d You Just See Me Here?
Oh yeah, I saw you there, noticing me. I was pretty sure I did. I mean, I was watching every little fucking thing you could do, and I was just knowing that eventually your eyes were going to wind up on me, and why wouldn’t you like what you were seeing?
I feel a little funny, I feel a little off. I’m milk that’s been left in the fridge for maybe a couple of weeks too long. I’m chocolates with nuts inside with maggots inside. I’m something that looked so much tastier than it turned out to be. It seemed so cheap, before the hospital bills started coming in.
Oh, yeah, I thought I saw you there, dancing slowly in that coolly indifferent way that girls like you have of doing everything. You wanted me to see you, that’s why you wouldn’t let me ask you any questions.
I saw the window breaking in, as you stepped out. I felt the surging push of “you know whatever” as you looked into your drink and then, before I knew it, we were dancing to some other stupid tune.
Anonymous asked: What's your take on serial killers? Monsters or merely misunderstood?
Well, I think we’re all a little misunderstood, when you get right down to it.
I don’t think it’s good or healthy to kill humans. I understand that sometimes it is necessary, but I think it should be avoided whenever it can be. I think if you want a person to suffer, you need to let them live. Killing should be reserved for emergencies, and last resorts.
Also, I’ve never seen a cool serial killer, like on TV. Real serial killers tend be very unattractive, unintelligent men with terrible taste in fiction and pornography. They’re never people who’d love the same books as me.
Serial killing seems to stem from pain and fractured personalities. It doesn’t seem to be a healthy or happy path, as cool as the characters may seem in comic books and movies. I think people who kill are haunted by the same mental and emotional cripplings that drive them on.
Sorry; I sorta wanted to write something a little more fun about all that, but it feels kinda nice to be honest and straightforward about this sorta thing.
I Wake Up, And Go To Work
“There’s just some people in this world I simply don’t like that much,” I said, sliding a cold pair of pliers into my palm. I tapped the business end of the metal tool against my friend’s sharpened teeth.
“Are you worried about becoming an overly judgmental person?” she asked me, eyeing the way I savoured the anticipation of torture.
“I’m more worried,” I said, gripping one of his filed-to-a-vampiric-point teeth in the mouth of the pliers, “about being one of those assholes who doesn’t have any standards.” I flinched my wrists slightly, and the pointy little incisor came off in a fountain of blood and moaning.
“You’re just not really good with people,” she noted, as I went back into my friend’s mouth for more. He was struggling, but the electrical tape was holding him down pretty good.
“I’m fine with people,” I insisted. “I’m just a little… specific.”
The snap of exposed bone, that’s the sound of teeth breaking against the metal maw of my icy cold pliers. Some teeth I pull out. Some I crush back into the jaw. He screams and he screams and he screams, through a mouthful of blood and broken bits.
She watches me work through my social issues,
And I consider what kind of a man I’d like to grow up into.
Tough As Tender
Fuck, am I ever a big tough guy.
I have to stop when I walk past the mirror, not just to preen, but to threaten. I can’t stand being looked at like that guy looks at me. I got a sense of pride, you know?
I keep an eye out for weaklings when I’m out strutting, because being tough is all about showing it off on other people.
If being stronger than the guy you’re fighting isn’t heroic, then how come Superman is the most heroic man in the world? Hell, there’s no problem I’ve ever met that I couldn’t just beat my way through.
I like to take off my shirt to show people just how comfortable I am with how awesome I am. I like to talk to girls ‘cause they like to listen to me, when I’m talking. I like the attention. I like fear and sexuality and people just, like, looking up at me.
I eat human life and I exude pure testosterone.
I could shoot you dead without ever picking up a gun.
Because, fuck, am I ever a big tough guy.
“Man,” I said, starting to cry unexpectedly, “this song makes me really sad.”
I watched a girl fall in love with me, out-grow me, and move on from me. She stops by my life to tell me how her wedding is looking. I save the date, because it’s still really nice to see her looking so happy.
I sure didn’t make her that happy. Well, maybe once or twice I came pretty close.
I watch a lot of things, close up and from a distance. People grow together and grow apart, they learn together and they lean apart. We wiggle and press. We try out new songs, new dances, new random bits of nonsense to throw about the room.
I get stuck with another track that I can’t skip, but I can’t always make it past either. The song just has to play itself out, and I have to figure out where I’m going to go after.