Just another day. Just another day of burning buildings. Just another day of burning buildings, and fire, falling from the sky. Fire, and shards of glass, falling from the sky. 

Don’t look up, or you’ll catch your death. There’s fire, and shards of glass, falling from the sky.

I’d like you to meet my lover; she’s this girl I fuck. She walks around naked, armed to the teeth; her teeth being her most dangerous armament of all. I’ve seen her end lives and orgasms with those teeth. I’ve seen her bring whole parties to a close, with barely a batting of her eyes.

She’s a hunter. A killer. A fornicator and masturbator. A devourer of souls and little cakes. Her cunt drips hot wax, and her lips spew noxious lies that always make me feel like I’m king of the world, and about to topple off the side of it.

Toppling sideways. Forever falling off the world.

She’s a loud orgasm in a cracked champaign glass. The click of your teeth as you try to bite down, and miss. 

I miss her. But I won’t miss her twice.

We met up and made love in a hotel room. It had smooth glossy floors and thick curtains for keeping out sunshine and bullets and prying eyes.

She was beautiful, and topped with pink frosting; imagine a girl-shaped cupcake, waiting to be stripped naked and devoured. Imagine something that’s so colourful and sweet that it hurts your teeth and blinds your eyes. Imagine a warm, dark room, with only you and her within it.

Outside a world war of wind is battering against the walls. You can almost hear the glass bending against the pressure, threatening to give way, transforming itself into a billion little shards. Outside the rain turns to sleet, the sleet turns to snow, and the snow turns to hail. Imagine weather that hates you. All day long.

I recognized her voice from her blog. I recognized her body from my dreams. I recognized our desire as being the sort of thing that motivated porno-movies and emptied bank-accounts. I thought of her as some sort of drifty-eyed dream that downloaded while I was snoozing at the keyboard, but now, I’m not sure what she’s supposed to be.

She smiles like a whip and blinks like gunshots going off in the night. She cums like we’re cracking the firmament of the earth, like we’re peeling by the sky to let the stars come down.

She holds my hand, and pushes me off the bridge.

Into darkness.

She looks into the camera and strips off all her illusions. 

She gives up on not being lied to. She gives up on not being deceived. She surrenders her need to be understood, and her desire to consume something meaningful. 

She looks into the camera, and she smiles a toothless grin of bloody razorblades and fragments of a greater darkness. 

I’m stationed in the alley out behind her house. I perch up on the telephone wires like a big tall bird in a long dirty overcoat. I watch her when she’s in the shower. I watch her when she’s reading online. She considers my presence/persistence evidence of some larger truth. 

She’s not right. Not this time. 

I’m an angel set to automatic. I am the autonomic response of the lifeblood of the universe. I am what happens when you just let things happen, and you stop worrying about consequences. 

SO YOU:

Stop at a roadside diner for cheap coffee and overpriced cigarettes. Turn your teeth yellow-brown and your heart into a shit-stain of abandonment. 

Keep your lover locked in the trunk of the car. I can still hear her banging on the metal frame in there.

Just drive and drive and drive, until there’s nothing left but road and wheels twisted by the grooves in the pavement. 

I offered you a bit of truth, just to see you choke it down.

I cry for vengeance, she cries for ice cream. 

She cries, for chocolate and vanilla, for smooth tastes to be licked down, for hot summer days that melt you across the ground. Ants get sticky in it, get trapped in it, trying to salvage something to eat from it all. Little bugs of summer.

I want something soft and warm to yield its treasures to my mouth. She wants to rinse me out of her hair, and down the drain, down into darkness and piss. She wants to remind me how easy I am to forget. I want to eat and eat and eat until there’s nothing of her left but a smile and a moan.

We pause, together, like that means something. Like love means anything aside from, come over here and get down on your knees. Or give me the key to the room. Or let me try you from over here. 

We come together, like cymbals, clashing, crashing, making enough noise to make the neighbours out in the dark. 

We were trapped in a machine, a box of living words. 

She was born to fiction. She’s never known what it’s like to really be alive, to be something that pains and ages and changes with time. She was born as a book; her life was omnipresent, written down from beginning to end. She was just living out the motions, the moments, of the page you turned to.

She was beautiful and scarred and newborn and dying of old age, all at once. She was lustful, always so lustful. Eat more, see more, fucking more. She wanted to experience everything that was life, even if it wasn’t hers.

I came to her because I fell in love with her idea, with the concept of this girl, out there, in here, somewhere. I fell into her world, I tumbled headlong into her words. 

I got stuck in there. Stuck on her, stuck with her…. 

He wrote his suicide note with sticks of dynamite. He kissed the world good-bye with a road-flare between his teeth. 

Take a look at the last known footage of him. Clearly he was doing something intentionally, you can tell by the focus on his face. 

He was shouting something at somebody just to the left of the camera, but there’s no sound. He could have been laughing, he could have been angry. It’s hard to tell, it’s just a quick spill of some loud expression of emotion.

All alone out there in the dark, he created something that’d rock the whole town down to its foundations. He spelled out hatred or ambivalence or something more vaguely indistinct. With fire, in the night.

Fire, in the night.

Fire and blood, he used to write his legend across the land.

The explosion rocked the whole town. Down to its foundations. 

She comes up to me, comes on to me, drunk as she can be, and giggling. Everything about her reminds me of why she left me, and why I left her. She left me, but I broke up with her. I broke up with her once she’d left the room, and she still blames me for that.

She’s waiting.
By the stairs.
And she’s waiting.
for me to come home.
Doors try to slam, but stay open.
She tries to close the conversation, but the topic remains open to debate. 

She’s a big fat soap-bubble, floating on my breath. 

She loves me until I leave bleed.

She didn’t like the way I spoke to her, so I stopped trying to say nice things, and I said what I really came there to say. I said words that would’ve been unacceptable under any other circumstance. 

I called her nasty things, and she liked it. I told her what I was going to do to her, and she liked it. I threw her up against the wall, and she liked it. I told her she should try to stop me, and she told me to give her more.

Contrary little cunt that she is. She smiles through ever intrusion, and she spits my fluids back in my face. She moves like well-used meat, and she laughs like a criminal behind bars. 

She finishes me off execution-style. She’s the gun at my head, and trigger, both. She says something grim and decisive and I can still hear the sound of her heart beating like a dub-step bass-beat, and her pussy twitching in the dark of her black-and-purple-polka-dotted underwear. 

She looks at me like I’m an atomic blast about to go off.
And then she sets me off.  

I’ve been hurting myself a lot lately, in little ways. I’ve been grinding my teeth like I’m trying to rip out some cunt’s throat. I’m burning myself with little scraps of hot metal, making miniature brands in my pale white skin. Pale white skin because I’m scared of the sun.

I’ve been distracting myself, I’ve been trying to figure out where my life is going and what it’s doing. I’m losing track of myself. I’m losing track of what I’m doing, what we’re doing, why we’re all here together in this big fucking mess of an interaction. 

I’ve been getting down and angstful in my shoes again. I’ve been transforming into one of those sad fucking bastards I have such trouble with. I’ve been writing shite for shite and in great quantities. 

I’ve been talking to myself because the ghosts in my head get more food to eat than the girls on my couch. I’ve been telling myself stories and lies, I’ve been writing fictional worlds large enough to get lost in.

I wish you’d get lost.
I wish you’d get lost in me.