I sound her out; she sounds like bad advice. Bad advice, from a good friend.

I sound her out, test her out in my mouth, run her over my lips and tongues like she’s running me over with her car. She drives a big, fast car. Like the kind driven by dames, in old movies. It’s not very fuel-efficient, but it’s nice to look at. Smooth. Sleek. Aerodynamic.

She’s dynamic; like pop rocks and soda, making your guts bleed and burst. She’s pop rocks and drain cleaner; a caustic blend of sweet sugars and chemical combinations that burn. 

I feel sort of burned, from my time with her. Burned out, like I was used for too long. Burned up, like I was something to be consumed. 

I sound her out; her name, her voice. I try her on for size, see how she fits. She’s like a glove, a thin plastic glove applied for health reasons, or maybe I’m just doing my hair. I’m not sure what I’m doing, but I’m for sure doing her. She fits me, it’s a fitting situation, snug like a glove. Snug like a bug, in a rug.

I sound her out, her vowels and participles; I let them dangle from my lips like spit. Then I swallow her, her sounds, her voice, her gentle little suggestions of silence. Swallow her up tight. 

We were one of those hyper-glam pop-music girl-bands from beyond the stars. It was the early eighties, and everybody had a flying car; everybody had a haircut that emitted nuclear radiation. We might have been a little threatened by it, if we hadn’t all been so goddamn cool.

We toured the cosmos, shaking and kicking it like disco monkeys on speed, like white punks on dope, like teenagers trying to fornicate when nobody was around. We had space-shuttles for tour-busses and changed the way people thought about how they could achieve happiness in their dull little lives.

We made a difference. We made things better. We wore skin-tight pants, and shirts that showed-off our sexy little bellies. We shook it, we kicked it, we knocked fucking loose. We knocked planets out of orbit, and stars out of alignment. 

We broke hearts and inter-galactic treaties. 

Our music was very loud, and our bodies were very attractive. 

There were other details, but the largely went unnoticed. 

“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.  

“Oh sure,” she tells me, “you can just suck smoke all day, until you’re full of something interesting to say.” She says it as a taunt, she says it as something cool to say, something dramatic to think about, just as she pulls the trigger.

She kills me. I feel myself die. It’s the death I’d always wished for.

I’d always known that some day I’d be hunted and executed by a beautiful woman with nothing better to do with her time. 

She’s got a body that looks like it was bought in a very expensive store that employs very angry people. She’s got eyes that reminded me of the sun, back when I was still alive; her eyes reminded me of the sun, but of the sun in reverse, so they were spots of shadow surrounded by a growing darkness that just bled out from the centre point. 

I’ve got an empty head, full of bullets. No thoughts, just deeds. 

I bleed like it’s a bit of something to laugh about. I bleed a bunch of misconceptions out the side of the back of my head. Somewhere in the distance I can hear her reminding me of something, maybe some celebrity I wanted to sleep with.

Anyway, death is a big black sheet that gets pulled up over your head, and then she’s off on another adventure, chewing up the day and spitting out the bones.

Typing to you while I wait for my nails to dry; why do so few boys know how this feels? Rockers and homosexuals, not even hipsters. Why so few? Why are your fingertips so boring? Your hand looks to me like an unpainted house, or a blank canvas.

Hair too. Can’t you see the future from here? There’s going to be so much fun and adventure, but you really want to look your best, so you can feel your best. I like to feel like a POP going off.

Smooth black polish going solid on my fingers. The passage of time marked in little smudges, like fictional ink running down the world.

(When I went to find a picture to post of “fingernails”, I noticed that most people just posted pics of their own, so I’m doing the same. That’s just a top-coat that’s on, so it’s still pretty smudgy and shitty looking. Though I did manage to include a bit of my shoulder tattoo in the shot, something somebody had asked me to post like, a million months ago….)