I like the way you’ve been writing lately. These little bursts. Unconnected sentences, like a bunch of death-row convicts who just happen to be living next to each other. When mass-murderers are the girls next door, god only knows what the milkman will be like.

I like the worlds you’ve been creating. They all smell like gunpowder residue and used condoms. Strange planets that float like half-deflated balloons around cold iron-hearted stars. Streets paved with gold-teeth. Cities built out of sand and left to crumble like cake.

You seem a little lonely, like the last cup of tea, and a little bitter, like a cold cup of tea, left too long. And very sexual, sort of like a cup of tea being poured very slowly over two rapidly fornicating bodies. Lovers, doing what lovers do best, but with cream, and sugar. So sweet. And creamy.

I hear your voice when you type. I imagine your toes, because I know you hate it when I do that, and I remember the cool ways you smile and lead me on. Listening to you snort when you laugh. Having to go back in the movie because when they were explaining the critical plot point, you were telling me about this dream you’d had a few months earlier. Watching you watch me watching you.

Just like this.

She came onto me like a cybernetic love spell, like a virus written to override my system and burn me out. 

I fell in love with this girl; her eyes were the colour of space-ships.

I fell in love with this girl; with her tits, and the colour of her skin. 

I fell in love with all the stupid things she had to say; I feel in love with all the stupid things she had to see - the world, mainly. She had to see the world. She had to watch it waste away. She wanted to see every plane crash. Every book burnt. Every CD scratched. Every heart broken. 

Yeah, she wanted to break all my hearts, with her hammer. All the hearts I had stolen and stored up, she was going to set on them with a hammer the colour of electric-blue pixels. Screaming imaginary violence through mouthfuls of artificial blood. 

We set fire to the nuclear power-plant to have a place to roast our marshmallows. 
And we held hands and snuggled as atomic energy broke the world into crumbs.  

She forced herself into my life mouth.

She smiled sweetly and said things like, “I’ll give you enough truth to choke on; would you like that?”

I suppose I would have, I suppose I would’ve swallowed any poisonous rhetoric she’d spooned in past my lips. She could have coated her tongue in cyanide, and I’d have sucked it clean and thanked her for the privilege of doing so.

She was a countdown that ended in a bang, that ended with her being in charge, and me in trouble. She was a sonic boom traveling across the desert floor like an invisible aircraft. She was laser-sighted and infrared-guided and armed with killer claws and bad ideas.

She kissed me like she was teaching me about sex as a form of martial arts. The deadly oral arts. Hips that can kill with a twitch. 

She pumped too much current through me, and fried my wirings. She stripped me of my clothes and my honour; made me a thief, a whore, a liar, a lying dog in the street, the sort of wretched lost soul you’d take pity on with a long, sharp blade. 

Why don’t you burn me? Why don’t you burn me up, like fuel? Why don’t you burn me down like a house? 

From where I sat, I could see a sea that looked like a sheet of metal reaching up towards the sky with little jagged fishhooks for hands. Reaching up towards the darkness of the sky, the thickness of the cloud above.

Yeah, she looked for all the world to me like a storm blowing in. She looked dangerous and angry, like a quick change or a nervous attack.

I wanted to know her, to taste her, to fuck her. She wanted to strike me down like a tidal wave, she wanted to annihilate me with her thunderbolt fingertips. 

My steel wanted to reach for her, my gaze all hammered into her shape.

I write my grocery list, and then I go back and number all the items in the order that I’ll find them in the store. 

She says that when we kiss, silence reigns…

Silence reigns, rains like little gobs of spit moving from one pair of lips to another; wet kisses, smudgy signs of affection, afflicting signs of affection, conflicting signs of things to come…

She’s a sign of something to come, maybe she’s just a prophet of herself. Maybe she saw herself coming; masturbating fiercely to here from the future. Maybe she’s a sign of something that’s already come; maybe we came too late. Maybe she’s just the echo, maybe that’s the voice I’m chasing now.

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. 

“I wasted the best parts of myself building this Frankenstein-inspired monster,” my old friend explained, running his hands along the still-breathing corpse of the creature. 

Can you smell it on the air? The weather’s about to change. A storm’s gonna blow in, and knock down all the deadwood in the forest. If you know what I mean.

“But you gotta admit, the thing’s got heart,” he told me, and then he chuckled. “Three of ‘em. Pig hearts, truth be told, but they’re more than enough for the job. Well, one cow, and a couple of pig. I’m sure you don’t need me to get technical.”

I hate leaving the city, going out this way where the roads are as honest as dirt and made of the same stuff. Where people live quite, humble little lives; though I do like that part. What I don’t like, is the idea of all those things that are loose out there. All those things that like to exist where nobody can see them doing it.

“Figure we’ll crank him up,” my old friend went on, “then turn him loose on one of those big, open-auditorium rock-concerts. He’s fucking crazy for funk, you know?”

I frown in the night’s sky, like I’m counting constellations on the other side of the clouds. “Nobody’s listened to funk around here for years,” I’m honour-bound to admit.

“Well,” my old friend says, thumbing the controls of his human-shaped death-machine, “you never know what the future’s gonna bring.”

I don’t drive. I dont like cars, or trucks, or anything that goes really quickly or makes a lot of noise. That’s just not my style. 

But growing up, there was a car on blocks, in our front yard, and was without a doubt, the coolest thing I’d ever seen. It was my father’s car; he’d owned it since before I was born, but it’s never run while I’ve been alive. 

A 1955 Coupe DeVille. Midnight Blue. 

It was a hell of a thing, and when I think about cars, it’s the car I think of. I also get the impression that it was the basis for the Footcruiser, the flying car used by the Foot Soldiers, who fought the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. That was one of my favourite toys, maybe just because it was a flying car from the Ninja Turtle world, based on the coolest car my dad had ever owned. 

Yeah. I don’t want a car, and I don’t need a car, but if I was to ever have a car, and especially if I was to ever have a car which I was going to convert into some sort of awesome flying machine…

The 1955 Cadillac Coupe DeVille is the car for me. I also got a lot of fondness for Ford Fairlanes from the late fifties, but my heart is in that fuckin’ Coupe DeVille. 

(None of these are pictures from my past; they’re just shots I got of a few google-image searches.)

“She wasn’t a whore, she was an artist, and there’s a difference in there, if you know anything about the creative process.” She’s talking about her mother again, using terms that were designed to make other people a little less comfortable.

I am trapped here on earth, with you. You, the person reading this; this is my letter for you to find. Find it and make it your own. Own this idea, and learn to live with it. It is only going to get more complicated from here. Here you go again then, look it in the eye.

Somewhere, I can feel my spaceship burning. I can feel a tether growing from my neck to this world. I can feel myself losing my chance to get loose, to slip away, to move on from all these broken little people and their fractured ideals.

I’m trapped here, with you. It’s like a paradise, except for the setting. Yeah, we’re setting ourselves up to fall, right here. Tumble and fall.

I thought, being here, with you, like this, there’d be nowhere lower to go.

Imagine my surprise to see the sky falling even higher up into the abyss above and beyond. 

She puts her lips up to mine,
And she blows me away.

Annihilation is just one of the many gifts that come from her mouth.

She bats her eyes, like she’s swinging a baseball bat; I’m talking brutal violence, where bones are cracking and flesh is first bruising, then rupturing. Pulped bits of body. It’s not cool, it’s not sexy. It’s an assault.

Yeah, when she looks you right deep down in you eyes, it’s like an assault.
An assault on your principles, on your physical persona, an assault on the sun in sky.

You know what I mean? She’d bleed out the sun just to see it sinking low in the sky. She’d go down on me just to see me defeated. She’d tear my heart out just to see me dying with her name on my lips.

All I want is to feel anything real, and all she really wants is to tear me up inside. She’s the ground up glass in my morning granola. She’s stuck between my teeth. She’s wrapped up tight around me.

Yeah, she blows me away.
And I don’t know if I’m coming back. 

We were misfits; we missed out on fitting in. 

She had a handful of eyes across her face, all beautiful and distracting in their own right.

He was smooth as a seal and twice as fast in the water.

We were a team of misspent youths coming together to change the world into a better place to hang out and cause trouble. We were anti-authority, anti-gravity, and anti-keeping-our-mouths-shut-about-what-might-happen-next.

Me, I was just a bunch of random words in a dingy tie. I looked like a well-dressed hobo, about to start begging for some progressive tax cuts. I came up with poetry that offended broadcasting standards, and pornography that couldn’t get anybody off without the threat of violence. 

What I’d really like is to see somebody fail at something I’d succeeded at. I’d like to see all her lights go out at once.