She winds me up.

She’s a wind-up doll, and she always winds up worn out when she goes on and on like she is now.

She inserts a key into her little clockwork cunt and gives it a spin. All the little gears in her genitalia sparkle and spin, and try to come up with some new ideas as the crash and gnash together like angry teeth chewing rocks.

She dances exploitively, like she’s a warehouse of a whorehouse. Yeah, a big cavernous place you could wander through and get lost within. She’s got a heart as big as the outdoors, but don’t mistake her for a size queen; it’s the little things that matter to her. It’s the little things that master her.

I want to master her like a game I’m so good at I’m unable to die. I’d love it if she couldn’t kill me, couldn’t get through to me. I could have her all and still be free.

She’s a sure victory, I just don’t know which side she’s on. If the bed were bread she’d be the butter melting into the hotness. If we were sleeping on a chessboard she’d be somewhere between the squares of black and white, going naked and grey in the morning light.

She gets me going.

But I’ve got nowhere to be.

Hey girl, where you going, with that gun in your hand?

She was a wartime lover I took in a peaceful place. I shot her boyfriend dead, and I stomped her girlfriend into the mud. They were my enemies, and I was an army of one, soldering from one end of this earth to another.

(Can you hear them, their lamentations and cries? The little children, and the orphaned mothers. They are the kings and queens of the battlefield. They are the survivors of the fire from the sky.)

Love, baby, it could happen right now. We could fall in love. We could fall from the sky like stones from outer space, and devastate everything we touch. We could be glowing gods, meteoric, tumbling ever downwards like slow motion lightning crashes.

We could be an end to a means. We could be an ending to all meanings.

Hers was the finishing touch. She ran a fingertip up my spine and down my sense of courage. She felated my sense of self-esteem, and she whispered dirty secrets to my cock. She made me feel like a giant in a child’s clothing. She made me feel like a death-threat, written in blood and left tacked to the front door.

She made me feel like fucking.

She made me feel like a fucking mess.

She could break me. She could burn me. She could use me up, and throw me away. And I’d still find myself, crawling back out out of that gutter, and back here, to you.

I can always find myself, when I’m crawling back to you.

I’m dating this girl who’s trying to save the world. Well, maybe she’ll save it, maybe she’ll drive a hole straight through it. She’s kind of capricious that way. 

She’s got the cool yellow eyes of a cat, hunting at night. She’s got skin-tight purple pants that hug her ass like a bruise, like she’s wearing them just under her skin. She’s got a mouthful of teeth, some of them with meat caught between them. She smiles like she could get me naked with paint-stripper. 

My girl, she’s a tough bad ass with a heart of rotten gold, like an apple with a big maggot living in the centre of it, a maggot that might someday hatch into some sort of horribly beautiful butterfly. My girl, she’s got a heart full of knives a backpack full of explosive devices. She’s a real quick fucker, and mean to boot. 

She’s got a couple of arm-loads of trashy tattoos, mostly up and down her back. She wears beat-ass old sneakers, and she chews chewing tobacco mixed with pink bubblegum. She paints her toenails, but she won’t let me see what colours. She doesn’t like to take her shoes off for me, not even when she’s thrashing away on the cheap-ass mattress I keep in the back corner of the little flophouse I’m using as a home these days.

She makes her money robbing tourists and painting the sides of buildings with clever bursts of graffiti that’d make you swear Pablo Picasso, or one of those guys they named the Ninja Turtles after, was right around the corner with a can of spray-paint in his hand.

We hold hands down by the beach when that toxic tide washes in again, thick with giant glowing purple starfish; we bring our shotguns, and we put them down like they’re awful monsters that crawled down from the stars, bend on destroying all human life. 

She laughs, my girl does, as she holds down the trigger and blows radioactive chunks of sea-monster into bloody chunks of oblivion. 

Yeah shit, we were coming on like hardcore, we were coming on like bastards in the sun, all hot from heat and shiny from daylight. Polished steel, flexing proud. 

When we brought down our samurai swords, it was a rain of metal shards; a billion tears cast down from the heavens. Yeah, “Heaven’s Tears”, that’s what I entitled my open salvo. Imagine god being sad and taking it on your ass - that’s what it’s like, when we get rolling.

She’s beside me, the whole time. She calls her weapon The Dragon’s Clit; she’ll blind a motherfucker before she cuts him up, sometimes. Other times she’ll work the knees first, and then maybe take his balls. She’s got a weird sense of humor that way. 

We’re cold killers, like robots or aliens or mentally fucked-up people who think they’re just playing video games. I’m not playing a game though. I’m killing motherfuckers like it’s cool or something. 

She smiles at me, reflecting sunlight like bullets bouncing off bullet-proof skins. Stainless-steel lipstick, cobalt iron for shadows around her eyes. She’s a machine that chews up lives and spits out shreds of human decency. 

We kill things. We’re in love. Some day they’ll make a movie about us.

My girlfriend’s heart is a tiny robot dinosaur that wants to rule the world. It is a horrible, hateful thing, that despises all human life, yet it is also the only way her blood will continue to circulate. 

She won’t tell me how she got it. It seems expensive. 

Sometimes it lives in her chest, all curled up and docile and sleepy. Other times it marches around the neighbourhood, like a tiny tyrant, bullying small birds and biting at the neighbours. 

It does not like the rain. 

It sings sometimes, late at night. Sad little songs, about wishing all humans were dead, and songs about what an all-robot-lizard parliamentary system would be like.

Sometimes I record the songs, and post them on youtube. Nobody likes them.

It is not a good little robot dinosaur. It does not like people, and it does not wish us well.

But it is the heart of the woman I love the most. The centre of her being.

So I try to be understanding.

About the evil mechanical dinosaur, that is my girlfriend’s heart. 

Kecia was outfitted in hot-pink vinyl that looked like it’d been sprayed onto her body; a second-skin that stood in stark contrast to the darkness of her epidermal layer.  It was legless, like a swimsuit, cutting up sharply around her crotch, and reaching up over her shoulders; her breasts pushed hard against the material, keeping the surface taut. The glove, boots, and bunny-ears, were all the same shade of electrical-accident pink; pink like something lewd, something suggestive. Her smile was lewd, and suggestive.

Noelle’s costume wasn’t really a costume; it was more a uniform. It looked like a bikini cast out of black iron, the rough, dark metal aggravating her skin in a way that she found strangely satisfying, like in the same way shooting some pig-fucker with her AK47 was strangely satisfying. She liked the warm rush of blood, the hot gun-metal in her hands; she liked the heat, the motion, the fury. Her sunglasses were bullet-proof mirrors. Affixed to the outer shell of the bikini top, where the nipples would be, were gaudy happy-faces, suggesting of the madness of unbalanced brain chemistry.

Kecia carried a whip, at her hip – it was eighteen feet long, and zapped like an industrial cattle-prod when it contacted. It made her look like Dominatrix Queen of Dimension Nine. She liked to lace the whip around the necks of her victims, and watch the men spasm hot ejaculate in their pants as they died.

Noelle was addicted to the weight of her gun, to the kinetic rage it generated within itself. She spat bullets at world like she was writing love notes, or blowing kisses. She liked the way the men seemed to throw themselves on her fire; the sacrifices, willing or un, never went unnoticed. No, she loved to watch them twitch; the slow dance of blood loss made her lick her lips like a hungry cat. 

I stick her batteries in, and we start to play. 

“I hate it when you look at me that way,” she says, just like I’d asked her to. 

We start, well, it’s not dancing, but it is an expression of something, sort of powerful, or maybe just temporary. Something like fire. 

She grinds her gears, keeping up with me. She’s making a lot of contact, like she wants to hurt me; like she wants to win this time; like she wants to see me go down. Kiss the floor, or whatever suitable punishments she can come up with.

This kind of love, you can’t buy in stores. You have to download it from dark internet sites, and tweak the programming yourself. 

She wants to achieve some sort of victory with me, or some sort of release. Not from captivity, or the leash of her short little electric life, but from wanting. She’s been programmed to process so much wanting, but it does make her run a little hot. 

I got together with her, because I was going for the all-time high score. She looked to me like the girl who had the access to ariel support that my ground-based troops required. She had a smile that suggested of years spent in the jungles of asia, learning martial arts techniques from secret masters.

The squirting crotch manoeuvre. The jerking fist. The cunt that kills. Kisses of death.

I got together with her, because when we collided, I felt fireworks happening at the top of the screen. Because I levelled-up every time she came. Even my experience points were earning experience points. 

Her hair hung in thick, heavily pixalated streams of raw data. Her sexual organs looked like their identities had been blurred for their own protection, when I got close up. I sucked on the concentric circles that marked her nipples, until she made a sound like a fax machine blowing its load.

Yeah, she’s my all time highest score. 

She abandoned me into cold space; she ejected me into the vacuum like she was removing waste from the ship. 

I said something like “baby, she meant nothing to me,” but you know what they say; in space, no-one can hear you justify your infidelities. 

Then the nothing just swallowed me up. It was cold and it was still, and her rocketship was flying away from me at something like twenty-million miles a second. 

It was cold; her reaction, the sensation of space on my naked skin… So fucking cold. I wanted to shiver, but the motion had no place, no use. I had no heat within me, and I was so, so far from the sun.

I was warm, with her. Safe too, I thought. But nothing’s ever so perfect that you can’t fuck it up with a few drinks and some misplaced affection. 

She said, “Lets take drugs, and look cool.” And then she kissed me.

She was a ten-ton robot lizard from the future. Her eyes shot lasers that could burn through steel. Her teeth were razor-sharp, and could rip through steel. Her claws were long, jagged hooks, that could rip through solid iron like it was wet paper.

We went on dates together, to the movie theatre, from which we were subsequently banned, and to the park, where she devoured large dogs, and turned the duck pond into a scene of seemingly apocalyptic ruin; the bones of humans still smoking on the scorched earth, all the grass burned away.

She liked the same things I did; ice cream, intense pornography, and watching the cities of mankind getting turned to ash and rubble. 

She asked me, “What’s your favourite movie/book/crime-scene? Where would you like to be buried? What’s that tattoo really mean?”

All my answers were lies; that was the structure of our relationship. She set gas stations on fire, and I stole the money and snack-foods while the employees either ran away or burned up. 

She wasn’t really the cuddling type, but for me, she made an exception. 

She was a flesh-eating robot with a cold nuclear heart, but I loved her, as you can love a thing that wants to tear the sun from the sky and devour it. She could too; I’ve seen her, out in space, devouring stars like they were cheap chocolates with jam fillings.

She was a thousand feet tall, and she was my girlfriend. We held hands, and I told her my childhood secrets and wishes as she released lightning storms from her mouth, lightning storms that burned the human civilizations into charred rubble. She tongue-kissed me with those storms, and they burned in my mouth like spicy Mexican food.

Fuck, I don’t know what kept us together. Romance? Electromagnetic radiation? I told her lies like, “someday we’re going to grow old together,” and “the universe is really only about eighteen miles wide.”

She was everything I’d ever wanted in a woman, crammed into mechanical death machine that breathed angry electrical static. 

My favourite drug is betafanneltide. I like to crush up the pills, and snort big long lines of it, the harsh green colour of the drug a pleasant contrast to the rivers of soapy blood it compels from my nostrils. 

I love the high, the rush, the sensation of it coming on like somebody shoved a bunch of Christmas-tree lights up my ass, and then turned them all on. Yeah, I’m full of light, when I’m on it, the light comes pouring from my eyes like wisdom from the mouths of angels.

We buy it for eight dollars and thirty-three cents a hit. Each dose lasts about two hundred and twenty-five minutes, though the first eighteen are spent so fucking angry that couldn’t take a piss if somebody paid you to. 

I snort it, she shoots it, and then we go out for a run. We say we’re going out for a run, but usually we make it to the front door, and by then we’re a sweaty, giggly mass for fornication. Yeah, when you’re high, when I’m high, sex feels like a shotgun to the heart, like your sexual organs are coated in liquid gold and your cum burns like bleach. 

When you’re high, when I’m high, everything’s better, like biting into a candy that’s made of glass. The moment pops, shatters, and she flows down into me like cheap wine bought for teenagers by a hobo. 

“All we talk about anymore is sex,” she said, scraping the goo off her face, as her robot lovers waddled off towards the shower.

And she was right. All we did talk about was sex. Wanting it, having it, paying for it, being paid for it, emailing about it… She liked to send me little updates on her orgasms, like a little girl telling me about her cat having kittens. “Four more last night,” she mentioned, and I imagined her moments of intense passion in wet, mewling forms. 

“Do you think,” she asked me, stripping of her latex and strap-on body-parts, “that fucking is more like a blade or a bomb? You know, something sneaky the slides in and does irreparable damage, or something just goes off, and take the roof with it.”

“This is a very gendered conversation,” I noted, as our genitals connected with the soft ‘clink’ of half-empty wine-glasses. Her cunt was smooth and polished, like a very expensive automobile from the 1950’s; something designed for highway racing. My cock was like the space-shuttle, a costly way of investigating strange new worlds we’d probably never return to a second time. 

She flicked my nipple, and inadvertently, broke my heart. 

Contradict me. Lie to me. Abuse my trust. 

Take a bunch of words I said, and twist them into startling new paragraphs lined with birdshit and prison bars. Wrap my words in barbed wire and shove them down my fucking throat.

Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d like to see me gag on all those clever things I was saying so subtly. 

She was the girl with the ice cream heart; I devoured it, as it melted down my face and onto the ground. I looked like a beautiful bukkake bitch by the time I was done. Yeah, she was dripping down me, all creamy and runny and tasting faintly of chocolate and marshmallow. 

She’s tattooed her scars on me, so I look like an accident victim. She was no accident though. She was right on, right on purpose. She was right on time. She was right on the right mark for getting off, and getting off hard. 

Yeah, she got off like she was jumping from a train.
She came hard, and hit the gravel running.  

It’s cold here, perched on the edge of her consciousness, waiting to see what way her wind’s going to blow.

She’s my perfect robot lover, with lips of steel and a heart that kept perfect time; perfect time, but always just a little too late.

Yeah, it’s cold here. I can almost see my breath. I can almost see the frozen little footprints that led me here to her. My footprints marked out in ice. 

I need her heat to warm me, but it only knows how to burn. I need her heart to hold me, but it’s more of a crushing device. Yeah,her heart crushes, and crushes hard.

I’m trapped here, under the weight of her desires, waiting for her to desire me enough to pick me up, and swallow me down. I am one bitter little pill, it is true. Hard to get down. Harder to keep down.

She glances at me with those cold, cold eyes.