She shot from the hip; that’s where a lot of her feminine grace and majesty and mystery spread out from, from the hips. 

She’s noir as the ash of a cigarette. She’s as fetish as the cherry of a cigarette, pressing up against a hot, taut body. She’s as silent as fireworks, she’s as dry as drowning in a waterfall. Falling and falling and-

Wait, what were talking about again?

She hits below the belt; she’s either gonna kick my ass or suck my cock. She breaks my trigger fingers, breaks them off, and uses them for herself. She’s as succulent as a good mistake on a bad day. 

“Fuck that. Fuck you.” Hands full of metal, swimming in blood and sexual fluids. She’s carving her destiny out of living letters, she’s sending me letters and living between the lines. Yeah, she’s mailing me her memories and her meat, letting me see what she looks like between the atoms of air between her and I.

She kicks like a drum beat, and she beats like she’s getting off. 

She’s more distressing than damsel. 
She’s as much a disease of language as she is a dame.  

She loved me like a snuff film. 

She loved me like she found me wrapped in brown paper, forgotten in the corner of some dirty parking lot. A patch of cement strewn through with broken glasses and dead weeds. She took me home; I had no name written on me.

She loved me like something private and fatal. She loved me like suicide on a slow day. She loved me like she wanted to slit her own wrists and forget her own name; she just wanted me to teach her how. 

She loved me for my screaming, my struggling, and the weak way I went down. 

She loved me like something she could put a stop to.

I’m sick of this eye-patch. I’m sick of taking medication; hormonal steroids that get caught in my system and leave me feeling confused and frustrated.

I’m sick of getting eye-strain from not blinking, and letting in too much light. 

I haven’t shaved in over a week; this is the longest my facial hair has ever been, aside from when I was 21 and had a dumb little beard under my chin. I’m not shaving because I don’t have to, I don’t want to… I don’t want to look at my face in the mirror. 

I’m sick of me, of being in doors. I’m sick of being sick. I’m sick of feeling like there’s bubblegum caught in the left side of my mouth. I’m sick of feeling like I can’t see right, I’m sick of being tired from looking at screens. 

I’m sick of tasting my tears rolling uncontrollably down the left side of my face. 

Why did you follow me into this hole, down, down, down into this hole, with eyes so bright? Eyes so bright you have. 

Now we’re tumbling, heads over heads over those cool shoes you wear and these dirty old sneakers which I used to pound down with upon the pavement. Now we’re tumbling together, out of head, and out of hand.

When did this get so out of hand? 

She’s spilling into me, out of me, like a big frothing cup of it; a big frothing cup of saliva, all sticky and sweet from those candy-coated drugs she’s sucking on all night long. 

Why did you follow me into these woods, where the trees grow so, so tall, and the shadows spill out so, so long, like the darkness wants to eat you up and up and up and up,

Until you’re gone?

She came to me like an alien ship,
All strange lights and unknown smells,
And hovering up just above some lonely place.

She went to touch me like she was an alien space-craft hovering over some lonely place. Her fingertips never quite made their way to me, but I knew I was there. I knew I wasn’t alone in the room, and neither was she.

She’s never alone when I’ve got her on my mind.

She locks me down like we were contracted to fuck, like this sort of passion is some sort of a business arrangement. She locks me down to a phrase, to a dollar-amount, to an agreement I can’t wiggle out of. 

She came to me like nothing I’d ever seen before;
a true bit of unidentified fucking objectification. 

She was like a ship out of orbit, a vessel for holding a very far away place. 

She came to me, hovering over me, hovering forever just out of reach for me.
Her exhaust, her exhaustion, spits alien steam into my atmosphere.
I breathe her in like she’s the latest high I’ve found to follow.

And I follow her, into oblivion.  
I follow her through the space we share.  

“Weren’t we going to be something? Like lovers?” 

She glares at me over a patch of fire. “I thought you were too scared for girls like me,” she said, throwing the truth back in my face like one of those cool little throwing axes. 

We’re up atop a skyscraper, staring at a sky of blue. Everything below is quickly collapsing rubble, smouldering its way down to the ground. Fire licks up through every surface, like it wants to rise up and become one with the sun. 

“I’m not really scared of anything,” I explained. “I just call it fear, ‘cause it makes more sense that way. Really, I just… I just have trouble articulating my more esoteric emotional responses.” 

She fires over my shoulder, digging three bullets into the skull of some sort of grey-skinned goblin wearing the uniform of a police officer. I feel one of the bullets graze my hair and the skin at the very top of ear. ”What would you do if I was yours?” she asks me.

I grab her tight, one arm around the waist, I stare into her dead cold purple eyes. “I’ll fuck you until you go hungry,” I tell her, “and then I’ll feed you until you’re too fat too move. I’ll keep you on a cushion on my couch, like an obese house-cat.”

“Good enough” she says, pulling me to the side of the burning building. “Lets go for it then.” We tumble off the side.

And then the jets kick in. 
And we aim ourselves up into the centre of the sun.  

The bomb is about to go off.

She walks away from the computer, the conversation, from her half-cold cup of tea, from her half-finished cigarette, from the cold of this lack of communication. 

She walks away from him, and half-way to me. She looks between us, and I can see nothing but regret in her eyes, regret that she’d waste the time she has on people like him or I. We’re not really worth her. We’re not really worth it to her.

The bomb is about to go off.

She files her nails and she paints her nails and she takes out a hammer and she hammers her nails into solid stone. She gives herself beautifully manicured claws that cut and bleed simultaneously.

Sanctimoniously, she reminds me that she has a whole other life that doesn’t really involve me. She’s got a lover, a husband, a boyfriend, a fucker on the side, a bunch of girls sniffing at her underpants, a bunch of lustful minions on the internet… Online, she’s the whore with a thousand holes, taking on all comers at once. A gangbang of gargantuan proportions. I’m lost in the crowd, in her.

She tempts me, tracks me, tricks me with little lies about a breath wide at worst. Little lies that slide under doors and over covers. Like she slides into bed next to me, when she knows I’m alone, or when she suspects that I’m scared of what I might smell on her skin. 

The bomb is about to go off.

She pushes away from the table, pushes deeper into me, pushes herself down the road, like a little kid on a wobbly skateboard and torn-up sneakers. She pushes away from the limitations me and her lovers have tried to place upon her.

The bomb is about to go off.

And then,
It does.  

I’m staring down the loaded barrel of karma, and I’m thinking to myself, “That’s one zen mother-fucker right there.” I’m seeing myself reflected in the empty darkness; I see myself looking back at myself, with a bullet for a face and a violent explosion for karma.

She’d love me to be some sort of weapon, something she could get her hands around, something she could control and fire off. I feel like some strange forgotten god; my name won’t fit in your mouth, and it stretches your throat out awkwardly.

She’d love to convince me that I’m dead. She’d love to love me like I’m going somewhere in a hurry.

She looks me up and down like I’m going to cry, like I’m going to tell somebody a total fucking lie about who I am and where I’m going, and why. She looks at me like I’ve been saying things I can’t remember, like I’ve been acting like somebody I’ve never even met before.

“Just wanted to be by myself.”

We get high, and we make love like we want to hurt ourselves. We make love like we’re late for kinetic education, like we’re trying to prove something to the speedier molecules in the atmosphere. 

We treat randomness as though it’s a passage from the bible. You know the words I’m implying here; I’m talking about when you do something just to do it, not for the outcome or the visual effect of everybody looking at you.

Feel their fucking eyes on you. It’s better than their fucking hands. 

What she is, is no mystery to me.

All these aliases are starting to worry me. I see teams forming across the room from me and I naturally assumed they’re aligned to power-structures that run counter-productive to my needs and wishes. 

But then he goes and wears one of my favourite coats; not one of the ones that looks the best on me, but one of the ones that I always thought looked the coolest, and I have to admit, that backs me down a bit. You wouldn’t even understand this kind of shit, it’s all complexified language codes and overly symbolic images in place of text, and like that.

“There’s over a million people murdered in this world each day.”

That might not be a real number, but I still think that fact, or a fact in a similar size and structure to it, every fucking day as I arm myself and walk down to the streets. 

I crack my knuckles and I think bad little thoughts, like gremlins flickering around my ears and the napes of my neck. You put your shoulder into it, and a back goes up against the wall. Yeah, a classic team of Dadaists, The Up Against The Wall Motherfuckers. You remember how that feels? You want to know how it feels again?

It’s all just for play, until somebody gets hurt, and then it’s really fun play, is that how it is? I put on different roles and the same goddamn cloak of armour. I bite my lip, and few other lips as well. 

Feeling so cold and empty inside. Scared of everything. 

I have a bad feeling riding my heart, like it’s riding a horse across an barren wasteland. I feel love and frustration knotting about my throat. I’m not sure where to go, from here.

She calls out for me, like she’s having trouble sleeping. I hear a moan, and my body twitches. I start to fear, to doubt, to pull away. 

I’m retreating into my robot-heart, I’m pulling back into the scar tissue left around the empty spot inside of myself where love should be. 

I smile all pretty, and wait for her to get bored, so I can leave this life, and start something fresh and false once again.

Wake up early, go out stomping. Go out wearing cool morning air, and let the birds form a little cloak about your persona. Be seen as the background coming to life, off in the distance. Nah, they’ll never know what to make of you - you’re not a character, you’re just characteristic of something interesting that’s about to happen.

You’re Agent #!, the bastard/bitch with an extra brain and too many words for one clever mouth to spit out all day. You got nothing but an urge to make things better and hands capable of changing all matter into something else.

You’re out today to do your most sacred job, replacing everything you can find with counter-clockwise duplicates of everything you might imagine. You sniffle, startled, at the quiet little people that populate this planet -  they seem more like shrubberies than actual peoples - the seem quite like sad little shadows, not the proud people you were promised to get to breed with and feed upon, when they brought you down here from your kingdom in the clouds.

You make me laugh like nothing else does somedays. And other days you fucking kill me where I stand. You’re a cold hard piece of work, you are. Nasty little thing.

Guess that’s what I’m always so fucking attracted to, huh? 

I don’t know that anybody is as capable of irritating/failing me as much as myself. 

Some days I wake up feeling like I’m going to chop that fucker into a bunch of suitcase-sized pieces and drop him into the deep of the ocean. Some days I feel like the only thing that’s going to cure me is a lover to set my heart on fire.

Just reach right inside, and set the little fucker alight. Pour gasoline into my open wounds so it flows through my veins. Stick matches under my skin so they’ll ignite me from the inside out. 

I wish she’d lay with me, lie to me; I wish she’d just kill me off or set me free. 

I wish a lot of things, because it’s easier than taking action.

I was a highway driving spaceman. I exhaled smoke where others sucked down fresh air, and I saw sparks and shining things dancing, where others saw only mundane deaths and cold places to sit. 

She reached into me, under my layers of clothing and metaphor, and she went in search of the real me. 

Me, I’ve got skin like an insect’s armour. I’ve got skin that fits me like somebody else’s mask. I’ve got skin that melts in your mouth and grows hard in your hand. I’ve got skin the shade of something slippery and I’ve got those things you said still stuck in my head. 

She’s layers of imagery placed upon me. She’s a bunch of audio tracks redubbed and played back atop each other. I could watch her, atop of herself, for hours. I’d love to see her pull herself down, back down to earth, back to bed. 

I watch her. I make her watch me, us, the whole thing that’s there to be watched. 

If I got to choose between being liked and being feared, I’d occasionally choose to be feared, just ‘cause it’s kind a fun to feel from time to time. It’s very different from love or respect, but it’s still a valid way of getting from one day to another. 

“I bet he’s a lot more charming when he wants to fuck you.” Me, I seem to be always trying to fuck somebody, so I’m always charming. It’s my goddamn curse. I wear it like a badge of honour, just daring anybody else to challenge me to take it off.

She’s love to see me take it all off, but she doesn’t totally know what she’s actually asking to deal with. 

Me, I’m nothing dangerous, not even when I’m bored. A little destructive, a little pushy. But there’s worse than me, and they’re a bunch of boring cunts.