I Was With Her While She Was Here
We met up and made love in a hotel room. It had smooth glossy floors and thick curtains for keeping out sunshine and bullets and prying eyes.
She was beautiful, and topped with pink frosting; imagine a girl-shaped cupcake, waiting to be stripped naked and devoured. Imagine something that’s so colourful and sweet that it hurts your teeth and blinds your eyes. Imagine a warm, dark room, with only you and her within it.
Outside a world war of wind is battering against the walls. You can almost hear the glass bending against the pressure, threatening to give way, transforming itself into a billion little shards. Outside the rain turns to sleet, the sleet turns to snow, and the snow turns to hail. Imagine weather that hates you. All day long.
I recognized her voice from her blog. I recognized her body from my dreams. I recognized our desire as being the sort of thing that motivated porno-movies and emptied bank-accounts. I thought of her as some sort of drifty-eyed dream that downloaded while I was snoozing at the keyboard, but now, I’m not sure what she’s supposed to be.
She smiles like a whip and blinks like gunshots going off in the night. She cums like we’re cracking the firmament of the earth, like we’re peeling by the sky to let the stars come down.
She holds my hand, and pushes me off the bridge.
Kissing Her Fists
I asked for love-notes, and she sent me pornography.
I said, “tell me how you really feel when we hold each other,” and all I got was this clip of two attractive strangers, fucking until there was blood on the carpeting. Some multi-ethnic blur of insertions and moaning and droplets of sweat cascading down to the floor.
I wanted to get to know her, to understand her, to feel her closeness to me. She said, “check out this group orgy; nobody knows where its coming from next.” And they don’t. Every orgasm is a surprise. Every cumshot is a burst of the unknown.
They’re not in love, they’re just very well-paid, so it looks the same.
In pictures, using models as stand-ins, she shows me how she’d get down on her knees, like prayer with an open mouth. She opens up to me, like a stranger on the bus, flashing genitalia and danger in the next seat. She opens up to me, telling me truths like she’s taking on cocks two at a time, in full media res. No foreplay, just the pause button being taken off, and the action coming on.
She comes onto me. Flirts with me. Seduces me. Convinces me that all she wants is a place to stay and somebody to listen to.
Her most romantic impulses are just dirty thoughts. Who are those girls kissing, while they fuck? Who are they fucking, while they kiss?
She sends me porn like their instructional videos detailing how to tear her down. Break her into little pieces. Learn about her. Spoil her. Ruin her. Keep her forever, in bondage and love, like there was ever any real difference.
I asked for something that expressed emotion.
So she fucked me, until I felt it.
She’s Always (Just) Out Of Reach
He leaned in and said, “I saw that girl you really liked. I found a beautiful picture of her online; a very artful shot, all black and white, all classy and slick. Very professional. In it, she was sucking a cock that made yours look pathetic. She was on her knees, like a goddess, or some sort of muse.”
He talks like glass breaks. Short little bursts that interrupt the continuum. The fragments of his statements drag on the ground, leaving hairline scratches.
“You loved her, didn’t you? Or the shape of her? The idea of her? You love her hair and her body and her laugh, though you don’t really approve of how she spends her time. Maybe if you were at the centre of it all, there’d be something cool for you to languish in.”
Languish. Like Anguish, but more languid.
Yeah, I’ve had lovers. And yeah, a lot of them tasted the same. They came out of similar boxes. They had similar sets of gears.
Beautiful sets of lovers, twisting in sheets like lengths of candy being twined together to make delicious treats that spill over, out across the bed, and over the living room floor, and on into the shower. Lovers that licked and moaned, lovers that were mine, even when their hearts were owned by others. Lovers with open mouths and closed minds, and vice versa. Lovers who wanted to be everything. Lovers who achieved at nothing.
But every once in a while, I want something.
I really want something
I really fucking want something
That I can never have.
A Little Payback
It’s fall now, and all my graves are opening up to the sky, archangels reaching down like raindrops to pluck the sinners from the ground, casting them up into the stars like fireworks, burning and burning and… It’s fall and the sky is burning up.
I left her a note, a letter, a scrap of something to remember me by. She took my words, and she wrapped them around a pair of silver bullets, and she fed them to me, firing fire straight down my throat.
You can bleed, and you can burn, but you ain’t never going to convince her.
I left her at a gas-station. I left her at a house-fire, in the middle of the kitchen growing hot. There was water boiling on the stove, and there were cookies burning in the oven. I left her on her knees, cursing my name and choking down smoke.
I can bleed, and I can burn, but she ain’t ever coming back.
So now it’s raining, and it’s gonna be raining a long, long time.
Tattooed To The Tune Of My Heart
The best part about making love to her, was the way she cried.
She entered my bed like an invading force, or a force of nature. An earthquake comes knocking, knocking at your door. A storm rattles the window, and forces cold wet drops of rain across your pillow.
She cries cool wet drops across my pillow. She yowls like a cat and wimpers like something small and lost.
She clings to me. To the idea of me. To my flesh and my bones. She holds me close, like she’s a hungry little fat kid, trying to swallow a whole popsicle in one go. She wants to wrap her tongue around me, yeah, and feel me start to dissolve. She wants me in her mouth, and down her throat. Splattered against her thighs like a painting of roadkill.
Now me, I didn’t want to go blind, I just wanted to see her as she really was. She drew me in with kisses, and doodled my outline on the floor with the tip of her knife. “Now,” she said, looking down at me, her knife in her hand, “it looks like somebody died here.”
I wrestled with her; with the idea of her. Possessing her, pounding into her with furious insights. Understanding and enlightening her.
She left town on a Freudian construct of images; a train through a tunnel.
She left town, and I kept her number close at hand, tattooed to my heart.
Arson Always Makes Her
She had an extra set of genitalia that plugged into the wall; she could use it for multiple-penetration sequences, and it also played six different types of video games, and functioned as an old-style fax machine when it wasn’t coated in lube.
She said something like, “are you done with that pie yet?” She was always more interested in stealing my meals than in ordering off of a menu. Half a plate of fries, and six bites of burger. Bit of a strawberry milkshake. She reminded me of a special-effect, or a drug trip. Drippy, or fuzzy around the edges, like an image with low resolution, or maybe something that was spray-painted a little too hastily for smooth animation.
She carried a sword, partially because I asked her too, because it looked so fucking hot when she carried an eight-foot-long samurai sword over her shoulder when she was dressed in nothing but black bikini-panties and a pair of sunglasses, and partially because she liked to swing the thing around, decapitating fools and scratching up fancy automobiles.
We were in some no-name cafe with cheap seats and flickering xmas lights in place of regular bulbs. It was like a lame twelve year-old’s idea of a 1990’s rave experience, but with coffee and stuff to eat. A bit of bass pumped from broke-ass speakers in the shape of asses, mounted high on the walls. “Pisst-bump-bump-pisst-bump-bump” sang the electronic tones, rattling the speakers on their mounts.
“Well fuck it then,” she said, “if it’s not true love, let’s just burn it all down,” and then before I could figure out what she meant by that, we were up and out of our seats, a garbage bag full of gasoline in our seat by the window, a match, flickering through empty space towards the collected pool of combustable liquid.
The whole place went up with a belch of fire. A bunch of rednecks started screaming, but we were already cutting our way, literally, through the parking-lot, towards some fancy rich-man’s car we were looking to steal.
We’d need to get on the road, but even more than that, we’d need to find a place to stop.
Arson always makes her wet.
My heart is a little wind-up bomb.
Your fingers are all on the triggers.
You squeeze me and my little eyes bulge out
Like I were a cartoon goat.
You wind me up and set me loose,
Down at the playground in the sand by the swingsets.
I buzz and click around,
Making silly little noises.
And then when I look up,
And I see you’re gone,
I go to explode-
But instead I just rundown,
And my fuse fizzles out,
And my triggers fall quiet.
And there is no earth-shattering kaboom,
In the cavity of my chest,
Where my heart usually lives.
Again and again, the hammer comes down, a spark igniting black powder in an equally black night. I aim true, for the heart, but I just wing her at first, spreading a chaotic smear of electronics and heavy metal gears loose as her left wing pops loose of the shoulder, scattering heavy metal feathers as it goes.
She growls something, but all I can hear is the gun in my hands, the blood roaring in my ears.
Another shot goes deep into her arm, and a warm spray of red, black, and ocean-green blood spurts out, burning whatever it gets on. She’s got acid for blood, like a combination of LSD and liquid plumber.
She’s still coming for me. She still wants something from me. Her face is nothing but fangs. Fangs, and a smile.
I squeeze another shot, and it burrows into her midsection, into her belly. It tears the back, right next to her spine. The next lodges in a lung, so when she breathes, she hacks up that multi-coloured bleach that her heart pumps so viciously. The blood threatens to burn her outercasing, but her skin’s too thick for most attacks.
I fire and I fire, for all I’m worth, until my weapon is nothing but numb hot metal in my hand.
She devours my kinetic rage, and keeps coming.
I realize, only at that last moment that nothing will stop her.
She devours first my bullets, and then my flesh.
Sweet Dreams and Iced Creams
Two girls, a boy, a car, and a daring mid-day raid on the biggest ice cream manufacturing plant in town.
Agent A had skin the colour of chocolate-mocha-hazelnut, but the reds of her eyes were like cherries jubilee. She had a gun in each hand, which made six guns in all; the four extra-arms were bio-mechanical additions, crafted from cybernetics wrapped in cloned monkey-bat tissue, and attached at the spine.
Agent X had skin like Butter Pecan swirled with caramel, and her eyes were tiny dots of Peppermint Bon Bon; green dots of malice like traffic-lights saying “GO”.
“Go!” Agent X screams, her hand-mounted flame-thrower belching white-hot fire from her fingertips. “Move, move, move!” She gives orders like a military man, though she fills out her uniform like a sex bomb that wants to
get go off in your hands.
I take the lead, when I can. When I dare. A pirate’s cutlass in one hand, stolen from the maritime museum, a .45 automatic in the other, firing off thick lead bullets that’ve been streaked with wet paint; the paint leaves little laser-like trails of coloured motion in the wake of the bullets. It’s like art. Art that kills.
Bullets seek out bodies, as do blades and fire. Fire breathes and lives and consumes. Machinery melts. Men scream and die. An old hound dog barks twice, and then pads off to wait out the storm someplace a little more quiet.
We blaze and blaze and blaze, like a trilogy of stars falling down to earth with so much crushing weight it’s almost as though a baby black hole just burst to life. We’re hungry hunters, out stalking prey.
As their world crumbles around them, we rob the ice cream barons dry. We steal their secret recipes, which we’ll post online for free, and we sample their private flavours, like Orangutan Orange and Genital Grape. We taste creams never meant for common-folk, and we leave a trail of sticky destruction as we go.
Later, we’ll kiss together, showering off our sweet victory in the communal showers of some tucked away hidey hole. Just me, and my team of secretive agents, and our vendetta against the world.
Fight Club Hotel
She asked me to hit her, so I did. Open palm transitioned to closed-fist. I told her to close her eyes, and I watched her tremble.
We rode each other like we wanted to break the bed; the sun outside denied access by those thick curtains, thick like a cement wall. We bounced off the walls, like superballs, until we ached all over, fire ants in our veins, biting at our bits from within.
I was torturous, sadistic, cruel, and sometimes even creative. She cried loudly, at several points in time, and came even louder. She came like there was storm in her cunt, full of lightning and rainclouds.
I held her down, in cold water. I washed her clean, and spit in her face. I told her what I thought of her, how much I adored her, in the worst words I knew. I used language on her like a whip, meant to make her bleed. I lashed at her with my tongue, until we both were sore.
And I hit her. After she asked me to. Hard enough to make her see stars. Another time, to make her lip almost bleed. She swooned and adored me.
We held each other in the dark.
Nearer Than Far
She comes into town like a storm, or a herd of bees. A swarm of lizards, looking for a nice warm place to lay some eggs and eat some bugs. She comes into town like a natural distaster, an earthquake on wheels, a flash of lightning in a convertible cadillac car, all shiny wheels and rock and roll on the radio.
I’m waiting for her, at the city limits, at my personal limits. My wallet is empty and my gun is loaded and my pipe is full of smoke. I crack my knuckles and a small boy’s neck. I gnash my teeth and a set of blades together.
She’s coming. I can feel the ground trembling like her skin. I can see the sky shuttering like it wants to spray the earth with some great flood of an orgasm. I can sense something coming, in the air. Something immense. It’s breathing hard.
She’s almost here. She’s almost in my hands, at the edge of my will, riding along the crest of some stray idea I’ve shot out at her like a stray limb of the sea.
I’m almost ready.
I Spent All Morning Looking For You
She’s eating ice cream for breakfast; I’m just watching her, waiting to see which part is gonna melt first - her, or maybe the spoon.
Yeah, when I’m all wound up like this, she’s all lips and curves and dirty letters and unsent sentiments I wind up stuffing into glass bottles; cork the bastards up, and ship ‘em off to sea. Never see ‘em again.
Yeah, I want you so bad, I hope I’ll never see you again. Because I’m not sure that next time, I’ll be able to let go. I’m scared that next time, if you give me just a taste, I’ll wind up eating the whole thing. I got kind of a greedy mouth, you know, so I don’t always leave enough to share; just crumbs.
She’s one long Freudian wet-dream of a train-ride away. She’s eating something creamy and sweet for breakfast, and I swear to you, it should be me. I’m sitting here, chewing on granola bars and smoke, trying to stave off starvation while still keeping myself hungry enough to fight.
She’s a shy slip of a thing, ripe for seduction like an apple that begs to be bitten into. I want to make her do something she wants to do; something she tells herself she doesn’t, except when she needs to get herself off alone. I want to make her do something that she regrets as it gets her off. Crossing lines that can’t be uncrossed.
I watch her eat, sleep, clean herself, and fight with the world. I hold her hand when she’s nearby, and I flirt fiendishly when she’s out of sight.
She Kisses With Gloves On
“Not another word, not another lie, not one-whisper-more,” she spoke, almost chanting the words with a lyrical quality, as the thick black electrical tape ran around and around my face, sealing me up tight.
I mumble something. I can taste the glue on the tape, with the tip of my tongue.
“Nope,” she says. It’s a fact. “You had your chance. You had all the chances in the world. But this is how it goes, now. This is how you wind up. This is where they’ll find you.”
My eyes are still wide, uncovered, unable to look away. I always found her so… not just attractive, anybody can be attractive, but I always thought she looked so goddamn cute. And she hated that.
“But you won’t even be you, anymore, will you? You’ll just be The Body. That’s where we found The Body, they’ll say. Oh, yeah, whose body? somebody will ask. But they won’t know. It’ll be too fucked up, too disfigured. Nobody will know who you were. You’ll just be The Body.”
I squirm, going nowhere.
“My heart,” I exclaimed, spitting blood through my lips. “My heart!” I shouted again. “You’re crushing my heart with your awful robot claws.”
She looks over at me like a bad cat with sunshine on her belly. Like she’s lazy and cruel at the some time. Like she’d cut me up just to see what my blood looks like in the daylight.
There’s robotic pistons whirling to life, deep within her. I can hear them emanating from her crotch when she crosses and uncrosses her legs.
I spit blood on the floor, and lean forward like I’m going to fall to my knees. But somehow, I stay standing. Almost like a man, I stand on two feet, and stare up to where I think the sky used to be. Yeah, there used to be a sky above my head. Now there’s just her.
She’s so fucking cool. She’s so fucking sexy. Her heart is a burning iron sun; I can feel it glowing, radioactive and hot, just under her perfect breasts.
“My heart,” I say one last time, and then she rips it out.
The meat tears from my body, and spit out onto the floor.
She Kisses Like A Fist
Sometimes, looking at you is like being hit in the face with a very attractive brick.
You shatter my teeth, bloody my lips, leave me choking on my wet, damaged flesh. You smile, like some punk teenager about to punch a molotov-cocktail through the window of some fancy suburban coffee shop, or a fashionable downtown shop. You smile and my world goes wavy, my vision all askew as my blood plummets down from my brain, and into my cock.
You make my voice take on that growly tone, like I’ve been smoking cigarettes all day, or I want to give you some sort of a command. An instruction, or an order. My voice feels raspy, and full of needs. Thick with blood.
I feel thick with blood, like my pulse is a tide sweeping in from the sea. Full of dangerous sea monsters and unknowable depths.
Sometimes, looking at you feels like a sex crime, or a disaster. An earthquake, or a house-fire that burns the world away.