I had a dream last night. She was a big girl, voluptuous, with dark black skin, and tattoos. She was wearing a bikini, or something that didn’t cover her very well.

And she fell.

It was just a moment. Just a snip of an encounter.

She tumbled, trustfully, and I was supposed to catch her. I tried, I was standing in the right place, and at the right time. But I wasn’t sure that I could catch her. 

I readied myself, and felt her weight fall against me.

And then, I woke up.

Feral little cat,
Eats scraps from my fingers,
Takes a little bite too.

Feral little cat,
How much I gotta bleed,
To make you happy? 

We turn off, and we turn up. We turn our faces up towards the sun, and we let liquid sunshine slide down our naked faces. We smile like blind people looking into the lights of heaven. The trademark flesh of our genders takes interest; bits of us start to bubble and froth like a sea enraged.

Her, I can almost see through. Her mutant power is to turn to glass right before my eyes, my optical path leading through her like a well-knotted string. She’s a trail, a trial, an ordeal for me to prove myself by traveling upon.

Her voice is a chorus of sensations all calling out at once. Hearts beating faster, eyes going wide with shock, voice trembling… Everything trembling, really.

Outside, the streets are transforming into citizens. They look me in the eyes with faces of cracked pavement and brickwork skins. We form temporary alliances, and burn the mistakes of the city, into ash. 

Belly down in cold mud and hunting for extra ammo. Gunshots buzzing by our heads like bees on mescaline. Somewhere, the sound of a baby crying – I think that’s the big fat cop we shot earlier; one in the knee and one the ear. He hasn’t stopped sobbing since.

Out in the darkness, surrounding us, are the Murder Priests with their poisonous gas-masks and their see-in-the-dark Cloaks Of Inscrutability. I can hear them talking amongst themselves like angry chickens clucking the night.

My gun-metal is slippery and my smokes taste of dirt and rain water. My enemies, my true enemies, are long since hunted down and executed. I shouldn’t be here. Nobody should be here. But this has nothing to do with me. The Murder Priests received their own call to be here. Somebody wants us dead, but good.

I look up, towards a sky that’s flat grey anger and irrepressible bolts of lightning. I want to watch the space between the stars, ignite. I want to watch the heaven burn.

How much longer can we last? How much longer should we try?

Creeping and crawling. Cruising and crushing.

I’ve been thinking about you again. I can’t stop. I haven’t gotten you out of my mind since that last time we hugged, and I felt your fingertips linger on my spine for just a heartbeat. I could’ve pulled you to me. I could’ve kept you in the moment. Only the moment; I couldn’t ever, ever keep you. You’re far too free and on fire for a low-burning smoulder like myself.

Licking up smoke and choking out bold new ideas the size and shape of wholly newly created worlds. Big fucking planets bursting into the universe fully-formed and dripping with excessive forms of existence all aflutter in the air. Oceans sick with life. Forests full of monsters like dense clumps of pubic hair protecting tiny insects.

We drove a broken-down car into the past, and we hit up the crossroads, where we fell down on our hands and knees, and begged the Devil to sell us some super-powers. We got all liquored up, and we made some mistakes. We got all wasted on night-air and cheap gin. We watched the sun go down like a big red bitch on a long dark cock, and we dreamed of mistakes we might never live to make. We told lies and we clasped the fire against the black of the night. We cut ourselves open with sunshine and honey, and we drifted through life like forgotten suicides.

I am that scream against the crushing weight of the night. I am that cloud that sprouts no rain. I am the broken rock, the empty eye-socket, the mutant without a power. I am the misfit that can be slotted into any irregularly sized hole. I am the size and shape of Number None. I am the replaced remix, the Unknown Original, the thought the size of the scope of the scenery.

I needed a name for a hero. “The Green… Something,” I thought to myself. And then I thought, “Yeah, The Green Something. That’s a great name.” And thusly, kicking and screaming, a bit of history was born.

History is born covered in blood and screaming. History comes in with its own blood, and a drop from everybody else.