I like to think that you’re a member of my superteam. You’re more than just a cool friend, or somebody I respect, or a girl I really want to mess around with. You’re part of a silent allegiance of ass-kickers, located around the globe.

We’re not do-gooders or world-changers.
We are caustic agents of karma, the bookkeepers of dharma. 

We have an agenda of a Good Time. Yeah, we want to have a good time. We want to get loaded on each other, on thrills, on kicks, we want to spend years at a time, locked behind a closet door, staring at a computer screen, levelling up and making strange new friends; creating strange new forms of friendship.

You and me, we’re part of a movement. A gang. A living meme built out of bodies and electrical signals. We’re an affiliation, and association, a loose-knit assembly of able-minded rebels, sulking off towards the front-lines of the culture war, dripping ashes from our smokes and drops of blood from our beautiful eyes. 

If you became a hero, I’d be a villain just to clash against you. If you ever choose to be cymbals, I’d be drumsticks. I’ll rattle you, splash hard against the solid of your surface.

If you ever become a vampire, I’ll wander over to your home in the dead of night, nothing but broken crosses in my pockets. I’d put my heart into your hands, and let you suck me dry. 

If you went out walking, I’d follow you around like a cloud of mosquitos, buzzing in your ears and supping on your bloods! I’d never be able to leave you alone, and I’d wind up flattened against the palm of your hand. I’d be the goo between whatever immovable object you, the unstoppable force, came into conflict with.

“It fucking hurts to love you; or at least, it should.”

You smile in that way that suggests that you don’t even notice that I’m here, and I don’t blame you. If I were you, I’d have trouble seeing a world outside myself. If I were you, I’d probably arm myself with guns and knives, and go out burning and raging against imperfections like mankind and all their shitty little societies. 

Fingers on triggers, on pulses. Listening for bombblasts and secret omissions; the kind that lovers make late at night when they’re exhausted but still too fixated on each other to stop. 

I’m still too fixated on you to stop. 

I said it hurts to love you, but love isn’t a regular thing like pain.
Nah. Love comes when it wants to. You know what they say.
Love comes, in spurts.  

For those of you just checking in with me here and now…

I am Savage Henry Lee. This is my blog, where I write dadaist beatnik prose, usually connected to themes of violence, sexuality, fire, kinetic motion, and 90’s-style cultural rebellion. 

I have Savage Selections, which is where I reproduce stuff I like that other people write.

I also have Savaged Text, which is where I put my really adult “Oh baby, I wanna get in your pants and do stuff and yeah like that,” sorta writing. Yeah.

There’s also Perpetrating Ontological Thuggery, which is where I reproduce funny images I see here. So there’s that. 

Off of Tumblr, my big thing is The Young Offenders, an online comic I’m the writer and co-creator on. I think we’re on a semi-permanent hiatus at this point, but it’s still some 60 pages of violence and darkness and nasty little kids being awesome.

And that’s about me! 

She’s got a pirate sword in her hand; the heat of the blade’s burning through her enemies even as the hardware housed in the hilt illegally downloads hipster pop songs. Rhythmic, bouncing stuff that inhabits her skeletal structure, gets into the way she moves.

Yeah, she moves like she’s malfunctioning. She dances like she’s going down with the ship, taking on water and slipping down into depths. 

She’s got microchips embedded in the centres of the silver she wears about her flesh. They shock the unwary and give her crazy night-vision. They let her shoot sparks from the tips of her tits, though that’s more a maneuver for last resorts or third dates. 

She gives me this look like I just forgot everything I was going to say, all at once. She gives me this look like she’s slipping a virus into my system. She gives me this look and it infects me, through and through. I find her on my every frequency. 

You make me feel kinda weak inside, like your speeding car just yanked my heart outta my chest. You make me feel the wind whistling through that hole in the centre of me.

You remind me of my favourite song playing so fucking loud that we can just about hear it over the jet engines; it might as well be subliminal, but at least it’s on, and it’s making my bones fucking dance. You know that sensation, when you’re using every last bit of strength just to stay up right and move forward, but you still know that fuck those assholes anyway, you still wanna dance.

She gives me a dirty look; she’s tired of the way I try to borrow spare change and inspiration. She’s tired of hauling around all those fucking graphic novels I gave her to read. She’s sick of not just crushing me beneath the soles of the big sexy boots she clomps around town in. 

“Don’t make a comment, when you don’t even know.”
“Ah, oh, no luck.”

Yeah, I like it with the music turned up loud like that. I’m less self-conscious when I can’t hear how fucking stupid I sound.

I want to explain it, but I’m lost for words. She fucking stole the little bastards out of my mouth like she was drawing ants out with honey. Yeah, her mouth drips honey, and a dictionary’s worth of words, in little-ant-form, come trickling out my throat and over my lips and on across the room. 

Little words like little ants, seeking out sweetness.

What was I saying? I wake up sort of dazed and infatuated on the floor.