Just Going Out For A Walk
I can’t have a dinosaur, but I can create a machine that perfectly emulates the size and shape and behaviour of a dinosaur.
The trick, is to work with what you’ve got.
My robot is shaped like a large and beautiful beast. It stands on two legs, and it can shoot fire or pop songs out its mouth. It’s solar-powered, but it also gains strength by ripping into electrical wires, or devouring annoying people. I built it that way, especially.
It’s name is Max, and it has three settings:
- War Crime
It loves me, as a creation can love its creator, and it treats me like a friend; an equal even. I hadn’t really been expecting all of that, but as it’d turned out, we got real well. It was sort of surprising, but real nice. Like finding a bit of extra cake at the fridge.
Max, my robot dinosaur, is more than a colossal killing machine; he’s my main method of transportation and my favourite way to listen to music.
He’s got razor-sharp teeth that can take a person’s arm off as easily as you’d bite through an over-boiled noodle. He purs a little, when I tickle him around his neck, cat-like in his simple pleasures.
At The End Of Her All
I don’t want any girls today. I don’t want any ice cream. I just want to lay down here, in the sunshine, and die.
I want to relax, to unfurl, to stop holding back. I want to die.
There’s a song that I love, and it’s coming to an end. It built and it hit its refrain, and now it’s coming to the last little bit.
And I am going to die.
Love, I love you, like I’m on fire. Like I’m self-immolating, like being with you is like setting myself on fire, every goddamn morning.
Yeah, you look into my eyes, and you strike sparks across the surface of my deep, deep ocean of fuel. A lake full of gasoline, bursting to life with an angry cough.
Lover, I love you, like drugs in my mouth, like razor-blades love cutting up lines of thin white powder, like needles love veins. Lover, I love you, like I love pain and heartache and lies.
You’re a dancer and a deceiver. You’re a short walk to some place bad; you know where the rapists hide in the park, where the tiger traps have been set up in the city square. You’re the bomb on the plane, you’re the poison in the cup of fruit salad. You’re the carpet-tack hidden at the base of the condom.
Love, I love you.
I love you so much, I’m going to let you put an end to me.
Too Sweet For Me
I asked her to seduce me with sugar, so she sat around eating poprocks all day, and then she drew me in close to kiss, and puked it all over my mouth.
The caustic candy had grown angry in the bile of the stomach; it was a rainbow-coloured burst of sweetness in sour juice.
I wanted her to love me forever, but she thought I said “for whatever” so she came onto me with total indifference, like a well-fed zombie hord chewing but seeming not to swallow. You get me? She seemed not hungry for me, but just sort of interested in biting off little mouthfuls she could spit out after a bit.
Bad Ideas For Good People
Omega Boy and Darkness Girl crept down from their apartment where they went to fornicate and watch movies in private, and they terrorized downtown on a mission for snacks and attention.
Look at her hair – it’s a mass of living black flames, like a cloud of black smoke that settles around her shoulders. Look at her body; goddamn it is shapely. She looks like she was built out of high-frequency electrical wires; melting rubber. She smells like sex and springtime.
He’s a little more grungy, a little less lithe. His eyes are like plutonium, shining silver-chrome in their sockets. His smile is a threat of violence and psychic mischief. His stray thoughts tickle young ladies, and spur on coffee-shop arguments. His daydreams are like a narcotic plume of clouds that drift along, encouraging ice cream consumption and masturbation.
They’re looking for friends, and lovers, and anything else that would be fun to eat.
Let’s Be Friends, You & I
“Let’s all take drugs and be awesome!” I shouted, but it was a Saturday night, so instead we just went home and drank tea until we were pissing warm streams of Earl Grey that stung our genitals and made the toilet smell like a teapot.
On TV were all our favourite shows, but all the worst episodes. “The Spider’s Fly” was the one where The Spider, armed only with his eight-shot revolvers, battled the underground armies of the Sugar-cane kids. It sounds exciting, but half of the episode involved the scientific discovery of a strange new soft-drink flavour (boysenberry blue!), in a series of scenes that mainly consisted of the cast members reading off long strings of chemical formulas.
Then an episode of “Night Hunter, He Who Hunts Nights,” was on, but it the second part of a two-parter, and scarcely made any sense at all. Something about giant rats, and time dilation effects.
By the time we were getting tired, all there was to watch was the ironically-timed Christmas special of one of the best cartoons out there, “The Annoying Adventures Of Andy The Shoe.” In the episode, Andy wakes the dread demon Quetzalcoatl, and must placate him with the singing of such Christmas classics as “My old Christmas Sock (is full of glass)” and “Let’s All Dance Like Morons (Until The Lights Go Out)”. The twenty-two minute episode is about sixteen minutes too long.
But eventually we were tired and cranky, and it was time for bed, so we rolled ourselves up in wet cardboard, and tucked our little bodies in behind the dumpsters in the back alley. And then, as a rain began to lightly fall from above, like kisses from drunken angels, we drifted off to sleep.
Too Much Just Isn’t Enough
She kissed like a fireworks factor getting caught in a gasoline rainstorm. She kissed me like she’d forgotten my name, or the keys to her apartment. She kissed me like she wanted to taste every lie I’d ever told.
For me, she was just another. Another woman, another chase, another city with different walls but always the same streets.
She was a backhanded compliment, without the compliment. She made my lips bleed, but it was her blood they were bleeding. She made me hit her; she put a gun to my head and made me raise my hand to her.
She liked her sex like I liked my animation; rough, and weird. She liked her breakfast like I like I liked my women; quietly delivered in the morning.
“Hey baby,” she said, quoting some obscure song that’d yet to be written, “do you want to tell a lie with me?”
She abandoned me into cold space; she ejected me into the vacuum like she was removing waste from the ship.
I said something like “baby, she meant nothing to me,” but you know what they say; in space, no-one can hear you justify your infidelities.
Then the nothing just swallowed me up. It was cold and it was still, and her rocketship was flying away from me at something like twenty-million miles a second.
It was cold; her reaction, the sensation of space on my naked skin… So fucking cold. I wanted to shiver, but the motion had no place, no use. I had no heat within me, and I was so, so far from the sun.
I was warm, with her. Safe too, I thought. But nothing’s ever so perfect that you can’t fuck it up with a few drinks and some misplaced affection.
Drink With Me
She’s drinking a milkshake made with lizard blood and cherries. She’s got bright pink lipstick, but when she puckers like she does, her face reminds me of the excited sexual organs of a naked primate. Her wardrobe is expensive, and makes me think of broken glass and mean old ladies. She’s attractive, I guess, if you can overlook her personality, which I can’t.
We’re in a run-down bar where the locals are placing bets on how many babies a big mama-rat is about to burst forth with. I just want to swallow my drink, a warm glass of beer that reminds me a bit of the smell of dog piss, and forget about the entire life’s worth of choices that brought me here.
“Are you going to finish that?” she asks me, nodding at my cigarette. I already half chewed the filter off it, a nervous reflex I can’t seem to turn down. I flick the remainder of the butt at her, and she catches it in her teeth, like a trained seal.
Outside, cars are crashing together like they’re trying to copulate. Sixteen more hours, and the poison should have done its job; the queen will be dead, the rest of the bees will depart, and I can finally, finally, after so many long weeks of sleeping on park benches and under bar-stools… Finally, I shall go home.
How The Past Was In My Head
I go crazy for it when black hipsters call other guys “baby”. It’s a combination of some of my favourite things: Combine Blazing Saddles with Pulp Fiction and Luke Cage: Power Man, and you get this weird seventies-dreamscape of what I think the coolest shit in the world looks like.
“Honey” is in on there too. It’s like a weird variation on my calling girls “dude”, which I know is a little tricky to take on.
I was born in 1978, which is a very, very long time ago. If I were a car, you might not want have me still on the road especially with how I’ve been looked after. I also grew up in the interior of BC, which is a pretty good goddamn ways a way from any of the sweet, mean city streets I like to imagine when I imagine places I’d like to be.
I see those big metal podiums that the subway runs on. Lowriders everywhere. Something sort of like Grand Theft Auto, but the colours are brighter, gaudier. People snap their fingers all the time, and there’s never really anything good on TV, but that’s cool, because you spend most of your time listening to the radio anyway.
God, I am so full of shit, right? Well, it’s fun to think about, anyway…
Fucked Reality & I Love You
“I can’t read what you wrote. It’s too personal. The paper’s all bloody and covered in your former lover’s spit.”
She’s so punk rock, she squirts little metal studs when she fucks. She’s so punk rock, she pukes red bull and pisses whiskey. She’s so punk rock she doesn’t even have to listen to the music. I don’t know what she listens to, me?
“I’m too hungry to eat,” she complains, breaking my fork on the empty table. “I’m too lazy to live and too fucking cool to die.” She handles tea-time on Sunday like it’s an opportunity to kill herself over nothing at all.
She’s so cool, even her pubic hairs are plastic. She’s so cool, her skin is an artificial colour, and her body is styled like some artificial ethnicity. Her hair hangs in big metal links of chain off of her head. Her fingernails look like lizard claws.
“I’m the biggest loser in town,” she proclaims, suggesting subtly that I’m her prize.
What Kept Us Together Was Me
She thought we were something special, magical, something unique and special, something not like anything else.
As it turned out, that was just me, and she riding on what you might call my coattails. Yeah, she was riding on those, and she was also abiding on my cocktails; all those tasty little drinks I mixed up for her to drink down.
Well, her or somebody like her.
She was a fickle little bitch, but she was certain that she was certain about me. She held onto me like she was afraid I might slip away. Yeah, she was so lustful that her lovers could slip right on out of her, if you follow me. If you follow me, you’ll probably just wind up at her again. I try to break way, but maybe I’m too broken to escape, already.
The old woman is dressed in ornate rags, and is eating something that smells like chicken, but look like gristle on a bone. Her lips seem to pull the chicken into her mouth with a soft sucking sound that would disgust most people.
“So,” she says, and her voice is the sound of an old oak door creaking open, “shall we consult the cards?”
You nod, so she continues.
She put three cards out in the centre of the table. You notice that you’re holding your breath.
The first card. “The Ace of Skeletons,” she reads. “All secrets will be revealed.” She winks, and it’s as lewd a gesture as anything.
The second card. “The Queen of Downtown Nubians,” she tells you. “A woman of endless elegance, who is nevertheless quite busy. Quite proud.”
The third card. “The Knave Of Knives,” she says, almost proudly. “The beauty of youth, armed with a blade. Separations, and false-friendships. White lies told for profit.”
Outside, a storm is threatening to come to town, like an ugly circus full of handsome freaks.
I sound her out; she sounds like bad advice. Bad advice, from a good friend.
I sound her out, test her out in my mouth, run her over my lips and tongues like she’s running me over with her car. She drives a big, fast car. Like the kind driven by dames, in old movies. It’s not very fuel-efficient, but it’s nice to look at. Smooth. Sleek. Aerodynamic.
She’s dynamic; like pop rocks and soda, making your guts bleed and burst. She’s pop rocks and drain cleaner; a caustic blend of sweet sugars and chemical combinations that burn.
I feel sort of burned, from my time with her. Burned out, like I was used for too long. Burned up, like I was something to be consumed.
I sound her out; her name, her voice. I try her on for size, see how she fits. She’s like a glove, a thin plastic glove applied for health reasons, or maybe I’m just doing my hair. I’m not sure what I’m doing, but I’m for sure doing her. She fits me, it’s a fitting situation, snug like a glove. Snug like a bug, in a rug.
I sound her out, her vowels and participles; I let them dangle from my lips like spit. Then I swallow her, her sounds, her voice, her gentle little suggestions of silence. Swallow her up tight.