She’s running out late for something, some nameless sort of appointment that really only exists to inconvenience her, or me. Fate put her here to miss that less step, and stumble to the floor.

Her knee hits the carpeting and her nylon splits open and her skin burns against the fibres of the flooring. 

She says something “shit-piss-fucking-cunt” or something like that. She growls like a little wild thing that wants to tear some littler thing into even tinier pieces. 

Some days: you just look sort of weak and blotchy, your limbs don’t really obey like you’d like them to, you just feel like you’re gonna fall over, fall down, give up ‘cause you’re too run down. 

I’d offer her a hand to help her up, but she looks like she’d rather have a raw piece of meat thrown through the bars of her cage. I almost wanted to know her name, but I’d rather not have given up myself either. 

Those eyes. You know that kind of girl.
They burn right the fuck through you.  

The weather report says the world’s gonna end today. 

She’s smoking black cigarettes, and eating green eggs and ham. Bright blue ham, she found at the back of the fridge. Everything smells like burning aerosol cans when she’s cooking in the kitchen.

The weatherman is calling for “bolts of living fire that will split the earth in half like the victim of a horrible assault”, with a 70% chance of precipitation, and a 30% chance that any downpour will be at least 50% virgin’s blood.
“Well, virgin or frog,” the weatherman admitted, “these days it’s really just a semantic difference.” 

She’s smoking black cigarettes, and leaving pale grey ash everywhere she goes, like she wants me to track her down. Track her down, tie her down, attach her to an idea that’s a little bigger than “what we gonna eat today” and “what we gonna eat tomorrow”. Chain her to a larger ideal. Force her to think bigger thoughts than she’s currently working through.

In the sky above our heads there’s a barrage of dirt and garbage; a flurry of furious human waste, swept up in a storm and falling back down to the earth like a rain of yesterday’s unwanted gifts.

She’s smoking cigarettes, and putting them out in her palm.
The cherries hiss like angry snakes as they’re crushed into the scars of her skin.

She wanted to know what I would say to an offering.

I say: let’s do it. Let’s write like we’re falling love with the sounds of bones breaking on the pavement. Let’s drag our corpses across field of barbed wire, until our forms are stripped clean of clothes and flesh and impermanent desires.

Let’s bleed into the soil, and eat whatever grows there.

We can burrow deep down into the hide of some magnificent beast, and feast on its still-living muscles. We’ll carve our names and personal histories in the clean white of the bones.

I want you strip your metaphors clean of innuendo and skin. I want to see your naked ideas, maybe cram them all into the shower together, and see if they can get along, or if they all catch fire. 

Goddamn your image touches me inside. Makes me want to forget everything you’ve told me about yourself. Makes me want to remember the mystery. 

I don’t know who you are, but I want you in my arms, in my mind. I want to be on your mind, under the hair, under the skin, inside the body. I’m sending you this letter like a Trojan Horse, a way to sneak me into you. I assure your eyes I’m on the list, and your mouth opens, your legs spread apart, knees knocking so noisy I know I must be on the right path. 

You’re not who I think you were; you never were, you never will be. 
And I’m cool with that, right about now. You can be whoever you want to be, in a room that’s lit like this one is. You can send any idea into my mind as long as it’s an idea of you and your style of motion, your sort of system of being.

Point is:
I see you there with that smile on your lips, like a Mona Lisa I want to make into a long moaning sound; you know what I mean, you know the sort of man I mean to be. 

He tells me he likes my writing for the pictures; I just wish she loved me for how I looked and sounded as much for how complacent I seemed to be. 

“I guess I’m just looking for something that’s capable of being a little more shallow than the usual depths I have to plunge to in order to get off.” Ah, the best of it all, right? What’s the point of having my cake, if I can’t eat it as well? Whatcha wanna do, just sit there and look at it all day?

I spend days, turning to months to years, mediating on my own beauty and sexual prowess. It’s a disgusting, disturbing experience that leaves most of us introverted types as little more than dried husks resembling human beings about as much as soul-less fucks from the bottom of the sea. Nobody should be that attractive. Nobody should have so much. But so many do. So, what then? What next?

She tempts me, like a sexual forward ghost, like a rumour of somebody whose got a crush on you, like that dream where you almost get to fuck her - but she’s always just out of range. 
She tempts me, just like that, but on an entirely different level, in an entirely different format.

“You don’t just want to fuck with beautiful young girls,” she warns me, her words a noose around my throat that might carry me up to the stars, “you want to write words that get read. You wanna go off and be some poetic fuck.”

She dares me to.

And so then, maybe I do. Maybe I want it too. So I maybe I do.

I came into this room because I wanted to be alone when I thought about you. You understand how that is, right? You get that I didn’t want anybody to see me, while I was holding you in my mind.

I don’t want to own you; I mean, I want to own the world, and you’re a part of it, but that plan isn’t the pre-eminent goal in mind these days. That’s more a background thing, my attempt to fit a collar around the neck of the universe so I might leash it to my side.

You’re a bit of a new drug. 

I want to spark you up, I want to burn you, and I want to breathe you in. I want to get high on you, I want to get off on you, I want to have you flowing all through me.

And then I’ll breathe you back out, and set you loose once more. 

Breathe into me, just a little bit. I’ve got a fixation for your lips, for the motion of your body, for the little bits of skin that call out to me. 

I’m an expression of pure masculine something. 

I’m built out of steel cables and bolts of iron. I drip a stranger’s blood from my mouth. I’ve got a gun that aches to be shot, a sword that aches to penetrate and slash, a cock that aches to be marvelled at in all its grandeur. 

I dress myself in the day like the poets of my age, I dress myself up like a teenager turned loose, and I wear the air around me like its a vacuum of nothing at all.

I’m in love with her nothing at all; I’m in love with the gap that exists in her, where nothing is. I want to be that nothingness within her. I want to be the lack of anything that’s all up inside of her. 

I want to fuck her so bad, I feel like a surgeon, diving in nose-and-knife first, hunting out her appendix before it blow up in all our faces, like one of those plots or schemes that wasn’t very well considered before being put into operation. 

“You can’t talk to me like I’m a normal human being.”

Everybody wants to be so goddamn special, like all fucking day long. I can’t handle that, myself. That’s why I’ve got all these secret identities I keep around for changing into. You think I can keep this up all the time? I really need to be alone with the curse for a spell of time, at least every day or so. 

I came to you,

To tell you how my night went,

And you stared at me,

And said nothing,

And I thought you were so mad,

So mad you couldn’t speak,

But you had just eaten

A pot brownie. 

We were warriors, we fragmented, beautiful things. We toppled downwards like dying birds. We looked into the sky and saw our dreams fade like mist in the morning sun.

I came to tell you that I Love You. I came to say it so it could just be said, forever, and done. I came to make my will a rock of solid mass that none could move.

I miss you, I love you, I need you, I just can’t remember your name.

Those aren’t your words, those aren’t your desires, those are just the bits you leave crumpled up at the foot of my bed, that’s just what you do to seem a little more naked around me, those are just lies meant to give rise to images in the head.

Word association around you is always a bit of a tricky game. You make me think such strange things, like numbers and colours and bursting sections of rapture. 

Maybe that’s just me though, I just see what I want to.

And I want to see you.

More of you.

“You can’t stop me. You might be able to love me.” She says stuff like that when she’s drunk, when she’s armed, when she’s drunk, and armed with something sharp. She’s always armed with something sharp; her wit, her switchblade, her memory of the early morning sun.

Me, I could probably love her, if the money was ever right. There’s some sitting on the dresser next to bed. Not quite enough to see a movie, but enough for a light meal. If you’re poor, you might know how to make your money last. 

“You’re looking through my notebook. You’re reading my most personal thoughts. And you don’t even have the respect to take your shoes off first, before you come inside.” My life is one big book of poetry, and you’re standing in the midst of it.

I wouldn’t mind being poor, if I was also a poet.