God doesn’t scare me as much as you do; God’s never around these days, and I can’t seem to get rid of you. You watch me more carefully than any all-seeing-eye ever could. 

You remind me of, well, nothing really. You’re always so you, it’s like you’re doing an impression of something I couldn’t have ever imagined. 

I fell from the sky like a star, or a soldier coming down over enemy territory. She’s no enemy, but I’m coming down all over her territory, her turf. I’m sinking into the waves, and disappearing into the green. The blue of the sky, the green of the grass, and I’m gone.

I wanted to ask you a question; I wanted to phrase it just right, so you’d have no way to avoid it. I wanted you to get trapped in your own answer, like a big pretty bug, trapped in pancake syrup on the kitchen table.

You thrash and you thrash and you thrash and
you
are
going
down.

She comes to me like a spark approaching a sedentary pool of gasoline. 

I’m all of two inches deep, and darkly reflective. She’s a mere spec of energy, flying through infinite darkness. I’m a long and languid liquid, she’s a piece of fire. And together, we’re the heat of consumption and fury.

I can imagine her ignoring me, I can see her spitting in my face. 

She fucks my lovers like she’s ruining my memories. She sleeps with my friends, and she knifes my family in the night. She takes over my life like an invasion from an alien country. She cuts me up for dinner and leaves in a bowl on the floor, for the dogs.

She fixes what’s right with me, and leaves me limping.

Being with her is like falling up stairs, like the slowest, most painful progress, like fighting gravity and all my other instincts, in a blind, painful need to press on. I guess I sort of figure that if I can make it to the top of her, maybe I’ll be able to fall off.

If I could fall off of her, fall to my death, there’s no saying I wouldn’t become free.
In the process.  

We wake up in strange places, in strange positions, with strange arguments written across our chests in long slashes. She looks up, and she looks over at me, and she asks, “Where have our lives gone?” 

I had a life once. I didn’t think much of it though, so I sacrificed it for a chance to make something more of myself. I didn’t need a life that was going nowhere. I made up directions that didn’t make sense, I picked ethical destinations that didn’t exist. 

They told me to Do The Right Thing, so I’m sticking by you. I’m sticking close to you, and waiting for my chance to strike. You seem like the sort of something that could go off like a stick of dynamite. You remind me of the taste of blood between my lips; you remind me of my lip splitting, and spurting blood up my face and down my shirt.

She looks at me, and it all comes down. A billion buildings crash down to earth. Seven billion dreams turn to ash and mud. 

I hold hands with a deceiver, and I make up my own reasons for what I want to do.

I’d like you to watch me write for her. I’d like you to see how it makes me feel to put my words into her mouth. I’d like you to see how she looks at me, when I’m looking back at her.

She sits so close to me that I forget myself in front of others. I forget that I’m high, I forget that I’m me, I forget that I’m not from a thousand years in the future and armed with the knowledge to tear this world in half. She makes me feel impossible, cyborgian, futuristic, kissed throughly by karma and gods of catastrophe. 

These are notes taken, on the way down. This is a thing that is happening, like drowning happens, like death happens, like it happens that the sun coming up just happens to follow nightfall. 

I’m in love with the sensation of falling
And I’m in love with her
And I want you to see me, in the midst of both.  

Spare me your copy-and-paste affections. I’m aware that we’ve all gone through this before. I’m aware that love like ours is as common as mud around these people.

Everything’s so fucking clever and modern now. You and I and all that crap we say to each other, our attempts to be future people instead of scared little animals crouching in caves and fucking the days away as we wait for death to claim us.

She pauses, seemingly unable to write something for me that I haven’t seen before. It’s not that I’ve seen it all before, or much of anything. I’ve been sitting the dark, waiting for somebody to come in and turn on a light or take off this blindfold. 

She touches me slow, kisses me slow, like a knife going in, slow. Not at all like a bullet, not the quick and sudden penetration that comes with harsher screams and the sudden shock of sensation. No, she puts it to me like a slow walk on a hot day. 

Heat follows her intrusion. It spreads out from me like a little fire blazing through my cellular structure. She runs her fingers over my broken skin, and breaks me a little more for herself. 

She lands her aircraft like her ship and the earth are two enormously fat lovers attempting to obtain orgasms in a hammock. She scorches dirty images in the highway with the flames shooting out from the jets as the craft jumps around the roadway, eventually bumping to a complete stop. 

We stumble out of the machine, a couple of popcorn kernels ready to blast off like little rockets. I hang bright and shiny knives off of my belt, and she carries a double-barrelled source of frustration. 

The sunlight is too much for our naked eyes, it’s more like a physical assault than a nice day. I squint out across the strange, unknown territories and spit saliva and blood on a specifically ugly stretch of rock. 

She takes my hand in hers, and gives me a little squeeze. “This is it,” she tells me, and I can tell that she’s been dreaming deeply again, I can tell by the tone of her voice. “This is where we’re gonna kill those cunts, once and for all.”

She sinks her fangs in, and we start to talk.

Outside the meteorite shower is pounding against the window; little chunks of rocks from outer space battering the glass, making it wiggle and quake like it’s readying to shatter.

She looks at me like she’s readying to shatter, like she’s all built out of fragile little bits that could all come apart with the just the right sort of push. “A strong wind could blow her away.” 

I consider her, consider our options; I consider just stopping, getting out, moving on. 

She flinches when I blink. She smiles when I flinch. We share something that doesn’t share well; a sandwich, or a limited supply of oxygen. Enough drugs for one and a half people, but not two. 

She sinks her claws into my body, and we smile at each, and we go to work. 

She enters the room like a bass line, all long and drawn-out and deep. She seems so fucking deep, like I could reach inside and never touch the bottom of her. She looks like a deep dark well I could tumble into forever.

Have you ever fallen forward into darkness? There’s no bottom floor to hell, you just fall and fall and fall, and she watches you, and you twist in the darkness, you try to right yourself, but everything’s wrong and you’ve got these ropes around your limbs, binding you, trapping you, pulling you down, pulling you away from myself.

I try to keep me away from myself; they try it too. Try to keep us separated, like peeling the shadow from the balls of my feet. 

I keep all my secrets in a little jar next to my marijuana, so that I smoke them up, turn them to smoke and ashes, every morning. Secrets and dreams, fading into thick lines of smoke on the breeze. 

She bleeds over me with these strange, unsavory emotions. She makes it hurt so I know I’m not dead. 

She loves leaves me cold and hard. Like semen on a cement floor. 

“You got my voice in your head,” the voice on the radio repeats over and over again. And I know a half-truth from the road ahead but that doesn’t seem to matter between 3AM and 6AM, those quiet darker hours full of nothing but that special kind of nothing, the kind that doesn’t go anywhere or do anything.

“You got my voice in your head,” the voice on the radio repeats, “and the gun in your hand.” I know where I’m going, in life, but not in this car.

“You got my voice in your head,” the voice on the radio repeats, “and the gun in your hand, and her blood all over your clothes.” He says it like it’s a fact, and I suppose anything could be a fact, if you were willing to prove it. I’ve got nothing to prove, not to myself. I’m mythical in my own eyes.

“You got my voice in your head,” the voice on the radio repeats, “and the gun in your hand, and her blood all over your clothes, and you know the song we’re singing here.” 

The sky lights up like aliens coming home to roost on dessert sands.
Like lightning breaking open and setting loose demons across the land.

You got my voice in your head, and my hand by your side.
You got me with you, like a virus in your cell.
You got me, and I got you.
But good.

“The radio falls dead.”
And it does. 

I saw my muse whoring herself out in a bad part of town, and it took me a few moments to remember how it really felt to be inspired again. She came up to me and licked out my mouth out like a stray dog, tasting like ashtrays and sweet dreams.

Fuck it, lets go out drinking and dancing, why not, right?

I’d like to wake up next to you, unable to remember what we’d done, and hurting all over. I’d like to forget everything I’ve said to you because it was all so personal and embarrassing and stupid and inane. Why the fuck do I talk to people at all? I just want to ask, I just want to say, I just want to be somebody other than who I am. But I’m fucking trapped. Trapped by all this shit I say. I think. I say and I think. Actually, I think I say a bit more than I think.

Notes On The Way Down:

A collection of ideas, or words, of things I remember as I sank lower and lower into life, into a rut, into a groove, into a choice slice of existence. I sank lower down her body, parting her legs and kissing her all over.

I don’t know if I believe in direction. I don’t seem to believe in anything at all. I used to believe in you, but then you stopped existing, and I was left with imaginary gods and a taste for extinct animals on my tongue. 

What I’d really like is a chance to explain myself, to lay my soul bare and open. I’d like to find a way to feel something that feels sorta like peace move across my soul. 

But I can’t feel any peace, not with this sword on my back. Now with this gun in my hand. 

Here I am, a man of words and higher intellectual ideals.
Here I am with a weapon at my side.  

“I don’t know how to trust people who trust untrustworthy people,” I whisper like I’m half-awake, as I move out of the room and away from my friends. “I think you’re taking in the enemy,” I say, but that’s not quite true. The truth is that I’ve been in enemy territory all this time.

My ears twitch, unnerved at the potential for abandonment, or betrayal. I’m not really a relaxing type, for all my strengths and lies.

We’re not enemies, you and I, my friend. But there’s a reason that wolves and cougars don’t live together. Some animals just hate a pack, you know?