I’m gonnna invade your dreams like a virus.
This is me, getting inside your head like it’s a sweet stolen car I’m gonna bomb around the city in. Yeah, I’ll leave your skull on the side of the road, when I’m done, thick black smoke rising up from the engine.
I’ll slip inside you, infect you with my agenda. I’ll get you thinking my thoughts, my plans. I’ll become that topic you avoid talking about in polite company. I’ll breathe secrets to you, which you were so sure you already knew.
I’m gonna dress myself up in all your Freudian nightmares; Some great monster with Daddy’s dangling cock and Mommy’s omnipresent breasts. Every one of your ex-lovers combined into a single mass of fornication on roller-skates.
I’ll lay eggs in your wants and needs; they’ll hatch into sleepy, scaly monsters – violent pets with glow-in-the-shadows eyes and mouths full of nasty teeth, sharp as a junkie’s needle, sharp as a mean little idea.
Yeah, I’m in there, taking a long swim through your circulatory system, and feeling you fidget in your sleep.
I can feel your heart beating, beneath the palm of my hand.
She Asks Me,
She asked me, anonymously, “why don’t you love me anymore?”
I told her, “I never did. I just loved that costume you’d wear for me. I never even realized there was a person under it all. I thought it was a series of automated responses. I thought it was battery plugged into something mechanized.”
Her eyes are soft and sad, like somewhere I could lay down and stay for a while. Curl up tight upon yourself, and just cry yourself to sleep. Cry me to sleep. Cry me a nice little river to drown in. Hold me down, tears seeping into my lungs like ocean water. Like dying under perfectly clear waves.
Like dying frozen under glass.
She asks me, anonymously, “do you still think about me?”
I tell her, maybe. I tell her, sometimes. I tell her, what I think she wants or needs to hear. I tell her what I have to, the words forcing themselves out of my mouth like a viral attack. My ideas in her head, my little letters spelling out messages in her head.
This is one of them. Her robot head was swapped with yours, and now you’re thinking her same thoughts too. The plagiarism of ideals; a pirate radio broadcast of internalized frequencies. Get off my heart-beat. She gets off, on my heart-beat.
She asks me, anonymously, “do you think we’ll ever fuck?”
I’m not sure what she’d call this.
Her clockwork heart slows, and spits a broken gear into the sand.
Not My Voice, Not Her Hands
Everything memes something sometime.
I’ve started to feel high enough to stop coming down. I’m starting to see the patterns everywhere I look, like a bug-eyed conspiracy freak focusing on the problems instead of all the obvious solutions.
I feel like my arms are caught up in some larger machine, some great flesh-devouring beast of steel and rage that’s dragging me down and down and down towards the bottom of the sea. I can feel the water rushing up against my skin, I can feel the ocean pressure popping my eardrums.
I can see everything going dark. You come to bed, but you don’t turn out the light. You get into bed, but you don’t turn out the light. You get in the covers. The light stays on.
I feel like such a broken sinner, coming crawling back to you like I do. Looking to you for healing and safety and fuck knows what else. I feel like everything I do is a stain across your clean laundry. I feel like black ink spurting on a white wedding dress.
Or something else in a similar shade.
Selfish, Childish, Honest.
I know you’d love to see me win, to see me victorious, to see me take off this mask and cry for a little while.
I know it’d be easier if I could just admit to thing and be obvious like everybody else.
But that’s just not who I am, is it? And what’s the point of being something other than what you’re, right?
My personal mythology is all full of cracks and explosions. Smarmy glimpses of darkness, chipper little shadows flickering under leafy trees of spring and summer. Flaky winter snow mumbling conspiracy theories about right-wing government agendas.
My personal mythology is full of things like you; you pausing by the mirror to straighten your piercings or that funky haircut that makes it so difficult for you to get a new job. My personal mythology is full of bright-eyed little creatures all so busy creating art that I can barely distract them with the idea of curling up on the couch and kissing me for a little while.
I love your art, but I love your soft touches even more.
I Bet You Look Good W/Me
There’s nothing here for us but empty cups and smokes that somebody already smoked. There’s nothing for us here but The Past, and you know how I feel about the past.
I’m @ war with the past. I’m working to destroy it a bit more with every step forward.
I’m trying to transform myself into a melody, I’m trying to transmogrify into a better idea. I’m trying to find myself by spinning and spinning and spinning until I’m all kinds of lost and reach for whatever isn’t around.
This conversation is a time-bomb waiting to go off. Everything I need to admit, everything I want to ask, all the things I want to say with hands and motions of bodies set loose.
This is me, trapped within my own cycle, trapped in this stupid path of freedom I carved out of the mountainside to go wandering around within.
“Stop ignoring me,” she says, and she puts another blade in, right next to the other, so that I can feel it scraping the bones. “Stop paying attention to all that other imaginary shit, and start paying attention to me.”