She Loves Like Lights Going Out All Over
“Would you like to come home with me?”
She looks at me all coy, and I show her the knife.
“You’re really beautiful,” I say, like that’s an explanation. “I just want to take you home with me, and preserve this moment forever; this moment of your prefect beauty.”
Yeah, I seduce like a serial killer. And I make love like there’s listening devices setup in the room. And I dance like I hate music.
She asks me, “Do you, do you, do you wanna be my baby.” She sings like a broken robot with all its buttons depressed at once. She sings like a prison informant. She reminds me of naked bone fingers dragging themselves across a record. She reminds me of fire and tractor-beams and brains in jars and candy that tastes like rat poison.
I say, “Why don’t you just come home with me, and we can make love like only strangers can,” and she says stuff like, “I just came here to dance,” and “My belly’s full of broken glass and those letters you wrote me never made it through my email filters.”
“Sunshine makes me sad, and so do you,” I tell her. My knife is rubber; I don’t know if anything about me is real anymore. Faux-fur lining in my coat. Artificial leather shoes. And I’m pretty sure one of my eyeballs is made of solid glass and cheap plastic camera pieces.
“I love you, I love you, I love,” she tells me, “please die.”
I grab her arms with my lobster-claw hands. “You’ve been reading my dream journal,” I accuse her.
She nods in mute duplicity.
Always Falling, Never Failing
I remember falling to earth, in a dream. You were there with me, and we were laughing. Do you remember feeling like you were falling and on fire? I remember when you and I were close enough to burn.
Now we wear big black boots and snarl facial expressions carved out of broken glass. Shadowy perspectives, you know?
Yeah, fuck their drum circles and their hackysacks. Fuck their clockwork hipster affectations. Fuck everything that’s not as dirty and fucked up and used up and angry and tired and miserable as me. Fuck ‘em with broken screwdrivers in their eyes. Fuck ‘em with passion and a little less total indifference. Fuck ‘em until they start to look pretty.
What Weren’t You Going To Say?
I wanna know what you know.
No, wait… I wanna know what you wanna know. I wanna know what you’re wondering about, what kind of questions you have in your head.
Me, I’m playing my own game of attraction and denial. I’m surfing waves of social paranoia and taking wild shots at my own self-esteem. I time it just right, I think I might be able to put three big bullets right through that fucker’s head.
I want to see you fill your mouth with questions, and I want to see those questions take on the form of deadly killer wasps as they jet from your mouth.
You say you want to know more about me, and that just makes me tremble inside; with anticipation, and with fear. What if there’s nothing more to be seen in me? What if I’m a mud-puddle, one inch deep and full of muck, and all that beauty you’re seeing is just yourself, reflected back.
You never seem to notice just how amazing you are; that’s part of what I think my job was supposed to be. I’m here to help you appreciate yourself. Ideally, I’m here to help you love yourself, but that’s more of a physical exchange. You are such a lovely, lovely thing.
But that’s not a compliment.
I just like to fuck about with lovely things.
Here As An Example:
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.
Not A Place, Still A Time
Born on an alien world. Born out of blood. Born to kill. Born to die. Here to go.
I miss everything I don’t have easy access to. I notice your absence when it’s quite in the room, when it’s cold outside.
I’m going to find something that’s not missing. I’m going out to start fires.
I’ve got the words, but not the rhythm.
I’m not lost, but I need you to find me. I need you to find my little notes, I need you to try to understand the subtext. I need you to try to figure out what I’m hiding up in here.
She dances across the everything from me. I look out and see the sea. I see my future bride. I see karmic death and rebirth. I see a girl in a pair of shoes with heels that could really crush a man’s self-esteem.
I wait for her to tell me something, and she writes it in blood, across our bodies.
So Many Reasons To Stay Awake
You’re turning me on like a mirage. You get me going when I can’t see nothing. You make me need to feel the rain start falling.
Give me three hundred thousand fans, I can ignore all but a third of them. Let me cherry-pick my friends from a few hundred thousand screaming voices. Let me lower myself in the thickness of the foam of the fringe of thought that attracts all these attractive losers in closer to what we’re all doing.
Lets talk about writing and sex, like, all day long.
Angry unmarked helicopters move quickly towards clandestine meetings in the sky. Down on the Earth, I take aim with my eyes and shoot lasers through clouds. I spell my name with the winds of the upper atmosphere.
You think you can keep me coming, coming back around, coming around for more, coming moaning your name, but I don’t think it’s always going to be just that easy. I know myself better than that. I know I’m not that easy, day after day. I know I’ve got my own whimsies and wants and they only just sometimes happen to correspond with what you’d like me to want.
I’d like to tell you what I want about you, but I don’t know how badly you’d enjoy hearing it. I don’t know how much you’d enjoy just letting me be myself, and ramble on about the same-sounding shit for years on end.
If you could see me being reasonable, you might believe that anything else could happen. And maybe you’d be right. But I’m not feeling reasonable today.
Your Body Means I Feel You
Tiger people in the dark, hunting.
There’s a whole jungle out there, paved in liquid stone and dripping in the potential for blood and physical harm.
I didn’t know we’d be staying out this late. I didn’t know there’d be this kind of work at play. I didn’t know we’d be doing stuff, telling secrets. I was hoping maybe you’d just open your little secrets to me, and that it wasn’t going to be something complicated.
I see the way you drop to your knees, and I know that you’re never not going to be complicated.
I see the way you watch me, and I realise what a trap your affection is.
Lost A Little Bet With Time
Hit the ground running, like hobos jumping from the train. That’s exactly how I live, like a homeless man moving across the open field at a hundred miles an hour of unstoppable metal fury. That’s exactly how I wake up, like there’s a chain of engines a mile long rushing me along, forcing me into the future like the past doesn’t want me around any more.
Me and the past never really got along anyway. Can’t see eye-to-eye about nothing.
Meanwhile, out here, I’m pulling down death-ray sunglasses and pulling up to the curb, sneakers eating up sidewalk at a rate of some bunch of miles per hour. Spinning through the air like a lightning top. Finding myself through the chaos of creation.
Everything is an explosion of though. I realise I’m hungry and it’s like a bomb going off in the back of the car. I think about you and a bolt of something blue blasts down from the sky and carves your initials eight inches deep in the roadway. I hum a little tune and all the clouds start to burn behind him, a fitting tribute to all those things I wanted to tell you when I just couldn’t stop talking about myself instead.
Guitar Solo At The Edge Of The Bomb’s Blast
“Fuck it lets just do it.” He talks to me like I’m stupid, but that’s okay. Old friends can get away with shit like that, and shit like: He finishes his cigarette in slow-motion, and throws off the butt like a wild mad firework gone tumbling through the sky.
We pull on our masks. We straighten our ties. We go out for donuts.
I used to like the kind with the jam inside, but you can’t stay four years old forever. Now I get the sour cream glazed. These days, in my adult life, I’m pretty glazed all the time. I lay all up inside myself with a heavy coating of compassion and MDMA, and I guzzle bottles of synthetic feel-good shit that I don’t remember the letters for.
We’re like Batman & Robin, if they were a couple of dumb stoned pricks who went out into the world and mowed down dozens of civilians just to get their hands on some snacks. We’re a burst of brilliance in a world set in stone. We’re colour and light and imagination and guns blazing.
Yes, guns blazing. Still in slow-motion, I turn up the music inside my head. I imagine a world coated in candy and set on fire. I bring up images of people drowning happily in chocolate and honey.
I’d like to drown in chocolate honey. It’s the death I’ve picked out for myself, and I’m chasing it like my tail.
My destiny, she’ll never get away.
I’ve got her collar and leash all set to wear.