Machine gun fire in my head. Bullets and birds tearing the sky apart. Rock and roll music and the dream of beautiful women and perfect moments of sublime violence; the stuff post-modern war movies are made from; or music videos. 

Machine gun fire in my head. Your nails at my back. Your voice in my ear. A half a dream of waking up, falling across your bed again and again and again. Scared of every twitch and dilemma in myself. 

Machine gun fire in my head. I’m spitting blood and chewing glass for fun. Chewing glass like it’s a flavour of bubble-gum. I’ve got a flame-thrower for a throat and living fire for a tongue. I’ve got you, or maybe I just had you, and maybe you’re gone now already.

Machine gun fire in my head. My head’s a mess, a mess of blood and sudden impulses. A mess of meandering, a mess of geese all going off at once with those horrible goose noises they make. Swarms of animals rushing through my bloodstream; I’ve got the battle-instincts of a virus, just swarming and devouring making enemy thoughts think more like me.

Machine gun fire in my head. Nobody in my bed; all my lovers are out for drinks with each other, and I’ve got work to do. Always so much work to do, always so many dreams to blemish, always so much falling over and over and over myself, tumbling into endless mouths of fire through honeysuckle lips. 

Machine gun fire in my head. New friends to make, new lies to tell, the same old fucking battle to wage that I’ve been fighting for far too long already. I’m tired, sick of being tired, and ready to lay down my arms, ready to admit defeat, ready to fall into failure like my parachutes on inside out and I’m falling up and up and on and into the sky.

Machine gun fire in my head. Machine gun fire, and dreams of you.

I’m going to fall.
I’m going to fall. I’m going to fall to earth, like a star. I’m going to fall like the brightest morning star. I’m going to fall, and fall hard.

I’m going to follow you around.

And you’re going to follow me. You’re going to see where I go, and you’re going to come along with me. You’re going to trail after me like a kite tail. You’re going to get swept up in my motion. You’re going to dance along with my rhythm. You’re going to fall to the order of my beat. 

And I’m going to see you do it. I’m going to see you put your head down. I’m going to see you focus through it. I’m going to move through this, and to the other side.

He’s got her between his teeth, and he growls. I let it happen because I’m addicted to motion, because I’m drawn in to letting things happen, intensity growing like a well-stoked fire.

Of course I’m scared of being burned; why would you play with fire if you weren’t? If you weren’t drawn to the point of impact, if you weren’t pulled to destruction like a moth climbing skywards towards the sun? 

I could be threatened by so many things. Worlds larger and smaller than myself. 

But none of those things are me. They cannot be. 

The Donnas are dancing with themselves. The morning is cold and full of a godless sort of Sunday sunshine. 

Starshine cuts into our eyes like a razor. Slicing up eyeballs, oh-ho-ho-ho.

I can see him, I can see her, I can see everything twisting together, and I’m outside of it and within it and; I’ve been all over this town; I’ve seen girls from around the world; so I’ll just think another drink, because it’ll give me pause to reconsider myself.