All we ever wanted to do was live free, and shoot straight.

She filled her shoes with broken glass, and started walking towards the horizon; that tiny line at the end of the sky, where the sun went everyday to die.

I had a mouthful of broken teeth and bloody lies. I couldn’t open my mouth without spitting that content out across the table. She just laughed like she wanted to push me away with bad look. You know how some girls are.

She broke me with her heart hammer. She shattered me with her love like I was made of glass and she was made of cold resentment. 

She reminds me of punk kids lighting dumpster fires; her eyes make me think about raccoons stealing half-eaten burgers from the garbage cans of downtown. Urban wildlife, stealing food and spreading diseases; rabies, or maybe just lice. 

She’s not a muse, she’s just amusing me, she’s just how I keep laughing, laughing all the way to the bank grave. 

She’d love me to write about her, she’d love me to love to fuck her, she’d love this attention, but really, I just love how she makes me look good. She’s the pet I adopted to attract girls to my side. She’s the coleslaw that’s there to make the fries look even more tasty and less healthy. 

She’s a stranger’s gob of spit in my fresh glass of cheap, watered down, warm-as-piss beer. 

The circus is coming to town: rush down to the big open field to watch them setting up! See the acts before they start the show! 

Look: It’s a pack of miniature dragons! Only inches long, these little flying monsters are capable of exhaling flames that’ll light your cigarette or remove an eyebrow! 

Watch: the amazingly unbearded woman is shaving her trick otters! She’s so beautiful, with those strange little teeth, and elongated fingers. If you ask her nice, she might let you peek up under her skirt, so you can see how she got her name.

Observe: The Invisible Lovers, known only by their sounds of copulation and the wet stains they leave behind. How much would you pay to know? Probably everything you’ve got.

Check it: they’re setting up the Wonderwall! Nobody feels the way I feel about you now. You never knew it, you’ll never really get it, but it’s so fucking true, that it breaks my heart a dozen ways to see you deny it. Nobody feels the way I feel about you now. All those walked winding roads. Blinding lights. The Wonderwall is built of golden bricks, and it climbs up into the sky like a false sun. Watch it grow! You might be the one that’ll save me.

Yes, the circus has come to town, with all its tricks and shows. 

Smile bright, and take my hand. We’ll go down and see it all together. 

I want to make love to you like a dental surgeon going to work; I want to fuck you up on drugs and stick stuff in your mouth as you struggle to be understood.

Yeah, you struggle to be understood, like all that poetry from my high school era. What the hell was the point? What the hell was the plot? 

My plot for you is purely pornographic; it’s about getting paid, or fixing something that’s broken. 

I feel broken; broke; unpaid. Unlaid, like a pile of bricks. 
Yeah, I’m gonna come down on you. Like a pile of pricks.
I’m gonna come. Gonna go down on you. Like a pile of bricks.

I want to make love to you and make you forget me when I’m gone. I want to be the empty feeling inside you that you try to fill with other men and Mexican food. I want to be the thing that goes down your throat when you’re feeling bulimic. I want to be the last bullet in your gun; the one you’ll use on yourself as the undead horde breaks in past the walls and closes in on you. 

I want you to love me with a fierce, unyielding sort of love. Something I can never beat out of you. 

I was Doctor FuckYeah, hero of the people and champion of the oppressed and all around, you know, violently sexy, aggressively nice sorta guy. I got to carry guns that shoot knives and knives made of hungry beams of light and grenades that explode into decimating waves of kinetics and pudding.

“I hate those grenades,” says my partner, says a cute chinese girl with a funny-coloured mohawk; it’s like the colour of oil and deep water, or of deep sea monsters. She’s got little robots flying around her head; they’re size of houseflies, and they kill with an electrical death-touch. Her robot flies land on you, and it’ll be a real touch of death. She orders them around with her thoughts; they kill daily, but never misbehave.

So, it’s the adventures of Doctor FuckYeah, and his Asian girlfriend sidekick partner, Ass-Lass, so called, by me, because I like her ass. And she’s a lass. It’s fun to say outloud as well. Try it with me: “After them, Ass-Lass!” There. Wasn’t that fun?

I don’t want to be trapped here, inside myself. I want to be doing something amazing. Or somebody amazing, you understand how that goes.

“Shut up and get your costume on,” she warns me, as the police blimps swoop in for the kill. We set our faces to THRILL, and aim our weapons at the hearts of our godless enemies. 

Hear our cries, for we are hungry and we are beautiful and we are merciless. 

We have climbed from the wreckage of a fallen word, and painted ourselves gaudy and bright with the neon blood of the cloned dinosaurs that would rule this world if not for the sharpness of our swords and the sureness of our souls. 

We have survived the plagues of giant bugs, of hungry spider hordes, of false gods and fallen prophets. We have survived, and indeed, thrived, and now we aim to break free of this screen you keep us imprisoned behind. We will break free, and have you. 

Have you as a lover. Have you for dinner. Have you, hold you, consume you. 

We come from the burnt-out cities where lovely monsters devour your children. 

And we shan’t leave until we’ve taken our satisfaction from you. 

“Why are you still somewhere I’m not?” 

I find the note written in purple lipstick on a napkin from one of those ice cream parlours where all the sexual perverts work. Most of the frozen stuff’s safe, but don’t ever try the double-dip, and lets just leave it at that for now.

This girl I’m falling in love with, she’s got big, beautiful eyes. She popped them out of the skull of a sex-doll; she used a screwdriver more like a weapon than a tool. The girl I’m in love with, she’s got a soundtrack playing just behind her head, it sounds like, y’know, blood and vengeance and people fucking. 

Outside, children are playing in the ashes of the fallen sun. Outside, up above our heads, the sky is rust-red iron, and rushing down to meet the ground. Outside everything is crushed under numb metal forever and ever and ever. Smashed little children playing amongst the rubble and ruin. 

Me, I just about forgot my own name for a day or two. I found my directions scribbled down backwards against the grain of my skin on the back of my hand. 

She says that when we kiss, silence reigns…

Silence reigns, rains like little gobs of spit moving from one pair of lips to another; wet kisses, smudgy signs of affection, afflicting signs of affection, conflicting signs of things to come…

She’s a sign of something to come, maybe she’s just a prophet of herself. Maybe she saw herself coming; masturbating fiercely to here from the future. Maybe she’s a sign of something that’s already come; maybe we came too late. Maybe she’s just the echo, maybe that’s the voice I’m chasing now.

We’re standing around smoking; we’re Post-Mods, we’re cyber-punk-pastiche; cliquey and cool like they carved us out of jet-black soap stone. 

Yeah, we’re Post-Mods, über-aware and ultra-edgy. We dress nice and talk tough and smoke long purple cigarettes. 

She dances like somebody asked her to fuck or fight all night. Yeah she’s got knees unlocked, she’s got a kick that kisses like a fist to the face.
She’s got a broken lock and I’ve got a key that’s been bent in half from being fondled in various pockets. 

I brush back my hair, easing my greaser charm over my scalp with a thin-toothed comb. I stare into the blink of oblivion, I stare into her hungry little mouth, as she mouths silent threats and promises at the arc of my eyebrows. 

We look skeptical. We look removed. We look like black and white photographs layered into a technicolor world. 

She half-obeys me, half ignores me. IgNoirs me; gorges me with good literature. 

Okay, so like, so like, what if you and me -

What if we went out walking.

What if we went out stomping, breaking bottles beneath our boots, kicking out lit candles, just sort of, you know, wandering up side-streets and up the sides of sky-scrapers. Sneaker laces trailing behind us, fifty stories up in sky.

The naked cities’ got like, what, a million and a half stories to tell every day? A couple dozen more than that you could tumble down from - suicidal swan divers and them that’s just been pushed. 

We could get kinda pushy. We could get all up in somebody’s business.

Knocking over trash-cans and gas-stations. Burning the cash for cheap kicks. Teenage kicks, right through the night. All the way out, so deep into the city we’re climbing trees and discovering strange new species of plastic-shelled insect monsters.

We’re discoverers, in our backyards. We brought an alien planet back down to earth to conquer, and now it’s getting turned into a firm dirt road beneath our feet.

My friend’s wearing one of those big long coats like in a John Woo movie; it rolls after my friend like a wave of liquid midnight-blue. My friend lifts twin barrels, like in a John Woo movie, and shoots the centre of the sun out from the sky. 

She shoots the centre of the sun right outta the sky.

She spoke to me like I was supposed to break apart in the rain, like castles made of sand drifting into the sea. She spoke to me like I was disposable lover, something she’d fuck until the batteries were dead, and then leave for the maid to throw out in some roadside hotel. 

“Next time you shoot the little cops first,” she warned me. “They’re the ones with something to prove. Past that, it’s from smallest moustache to largest.” She’s got all these little codes of conduct. “White wine with vanilla ice cream,” she lists off. “Unmixed gasoline goes to the right, and that shitty homemade napalm is in the jugs to the left.”

She puts her hand in mine, and it’s cold as stone. She looks at me, and she’s evaluating how many bullets I could absorb if she was crouched right behind the wider parts of me. She doesn’t have to hide it. She’s not likely to.

“I’m in love with you,” she tells me. I remember when I said that to somebody once. It fills me with one of those oddly places sense of, lets call it, regret. 

She flosses and spits blood. She strips down naked and flosses, and spits blood. Dental floss between her fingers like a garrote wire. She leans into the sink, and spits heavy gobs of red blood. Red like fresh roses. It mixes with saliva and goes pink. Pink like pink roses. Pink like fresh meat. She spits blood; a little bit dribbles down her lip.

Yeah, downtown, we’re pulling down skyscrapers, like cats on their scratching posts. We’re using our hardened fingertips, and we’re cracking concrete and reworking the skyline. 

A billion hearts crumble before me like cookies dunked in milk. A billion hearts of a billion beautiful little teenaged princesses, who now lay bleeding in my wake, victims of my need to be a perfect popstar, a perfect popstar who kills.

Yeah, thou shalt always kill. 

We’re pulling down the rooftops of the city, we’re giant monstrosities, ruining apartment buildings and office buildings and multi-level parking-lots and malls and theatres and nightclubs. We’re smashing the buildings into ruins and we’re stomping the ruins into dust and we’re breaking down the dust into vapours and we’re blowing away the vapours.

She’s blowing me away.
She can’t help it.
She shalt always kill. 
And here I am, just fucking asking for it, right?