“I have never been in this room before,” she lied to me. 

I said, “that’s cool,” and I took off my clothes. My bullet-proof underwear and the lock of hair I wore on a chain about my neck. A keepsake from a night with one of those fashionable young porn-stars who went to make it big with her own line of how-to snuff-films for up-and-coming serial-killers. 

The girl I’m with now, she’s not like that. She’s a nice girl, or at least that’s what you’d think from her underwear. Smooth cottony stuff. No obvious holes or signs of wear. 

I think I know her better than that, though. She picked me up three nights ago, like a cop picks up a body, and then turns it over to the morgue. She attracted me by being well-read, and obviously orally amicable. I think I said something like, “Hey baby, what’s your favourite planetary sign of life?”

She said something back like, “you’d look good with the barrel of a gun in your mouth.” 

We wanted to be movie script-writers, in Hollywoodland. Now we were just cheap whores, lending each other money to pay each other off. It was a love affair that would cost us our knees by the end of the night.

We were down in Mexico when we fell in love. I’d gotten food poisoning off of a bag of tainted Doritos, and she was described by the waiter as “that mean chick with the Korean eyes”. 

Fuck it; we burnt the place down, and walked out hand in hand. She was smirking like a movie starlet, like somebody who had a real good career outside of food-service ahead of her.

We went hunting gangsters, because fuck it, why not? Guys with arms full of tattoos and names like The Killer and Hard Boiled. Guys who knew how to spill blood. Guys in love with the sound of gunfire. 

She wore bright green g-string underwear, and tight black dresses. Black lipstick and too much eyeshadow. She smiled like a well-paid porn star whenever she had a bottle in her hand, or murder on her mind. She was like a cartoon caricature of a hard, rough fuck. With quiet, dark little eyes.

We were down in Mexico when we fell in love. We took over a temple to the sun, and we set off fireworks all night. We lived on liquor and laughter.

And when it was time to go, we disappeared off into the dark like legends. 

I see her standing there. She’s perfect, like a goddess, or maybe I just think she’s got really nice tits. That’s close enough, isn’t it? Close enough to perfection?

I can’t get close enough to her. My hands are on her, my mind is on her, my teeth are getting into her. Even when she’s full of me, I’m not close enough. I think I could consume her, like a great ghost ship disappearing into the mist.

I miss her when she’s not around. I miss her more when she doesn’t exist, which is all too often. She changes colours like chameleon mood-rings. Her ethnicity is set to “variable”. She blinks and her eyes are blue, black, red, yellow, green… She blinks, and seems to glow in the darkness.

Humming now. She hums a song in my ear. She mumbles a sweet phrase. She’s so fucking gorgeous, I don’t care what she says. I just want to see her, lying, languid. I just want to touch her. Hell, I want to own her. I want to make her mine. I want to crush her spirit under my foot, and I want her to look up and say Thank You as I do it.

I treat her like a porn star. Like a stripper. Like a bought-and-paid-for girlfriend. I put her on her knees so she can look up at me. I tie her to the bed so she can get some sleep.

Eventually, maybe, we’ll fall in love.

I need to admit this:

I’m not a superhero. 

I just wanted to go to bed with her.

The drum-beat stars up like the pulse of the room is going up in a way that you can hear. Like you can feel everybody growing anxious and tense. 

I can’t take her cunt. Can’t take it. I can’t handle that she exists in my world. It’s like the sky is caving in. I can’t believe she’s fucking alive, let alone that she could be fucking me.

We’re driving, now. We’re really out there. We’re going so bloody fast it’s almost like we’re not anywhere at all. I’m so hard and hot that she’s striking sparks off my aching muscles. I could turn a lesser girl to ash with just a kiss.

I leave a trail of them behind us in the road; burnt-out husks of super-models and submissive librarians smoking like cigarettes in our wake.

I wanted to be anything she could ever want. I thought she could wish for me, and I could wish for myself to be even better, and we’d still have one wish left over to request some sort of extra lover who’d give us both head while we held hands and watched re-runs of The Prisoner together. 

Her turn-ons: Long walks by the seaside and arson on the weekends. 

Her turn-offs: Never met a man she couldn’t beat with a bat. 

I want to trap her in my bed. I want to be bait for her better life.
I don’t know if I’m everything I advertised on the box.
But I think I can pull of something kind magical.
Given half a goddamn chance.

Just like a monster movie, just like a natural disaster, just like a plague:

I’m coming soon to a town near you.

This is my worldwide tour. This is how I weave an electronic web in which I wish to ensnare many beautiful perspectives, and guess what - you’re one of them. Now and forever. 

This the part of you I’ll always own. The part you keep giving me. It’s only a little bit, but I only need a little opening to slip in a lot of message. I’ve got content and context, you understand. I’ve got madness in my ear my like it’s a gift I need to give you since we haven’t seen each other in so long.

I’ve been up and away in my beautiful kingdom. I’ve been counting stars and giving them obnoxious names like KABOOMFUCKSUCKA! because who’s gonna stop me? You? You don’t even want to. We both know that, and if I could be entirely honest for just. A. Second? I’ve gotten kind of tired of your lies. I want you naked and honest and doing pushups on the floor.

I want to sculpt you into the perfect warrior for my imperfect war. I want to see good little soldiers all in a line, all ready to suck it for the team. All ready to stick it to The Man. All ready for ALL CAPS AND BIG IMPORTANT TALKING ABOUT BIG IMPORTANT TOPICS.

Like you, and me, and that other thing. That other thing we were going to take home with us from that trendy nightclub we were dancing at until the drugs made our limbs all blurry and numb.

You gotta understand, my career goal is KING MOB. I want to be a sexy anarchist who lives outside the law and lives off the funds he makes off his clever writing. That’s my goal. It’s revolution or bust. It’s a whole new world, or it’s nothing at all, and I’m not really a nihilist. I’m more of a spitfire. 

And this is me. Spitting fire into you.

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.

She was one of those girls with hair like knives and eyes like a chemical fire. She drank expensive drinks and she broke expensive men for pleasure, or cheap laughs. 

I was the sidecar to her motorcycle mayhem. I carried the ammunition and I paid off the bellhops. I made sure the sandwiches weren’t poisoned, and I got to lay down with her at the end of the night, or more often than not, in the middle of the day.

She fucked like teenagers write poetry; all-too-often, and always until the whole thing was a bloody mess that nobody else could’ve ever appreciated. I got it though; I spoke her language, at least when kept her tongue in my cheek.

We were the ones who killed that lawman. Fuck it, he had it coming. You didn’t see his eyes; he looked like a baby-fucker if I’d ever seen one before. He looked like the sorta man who’s karma was just begging for a bullet between the eyes. He looked hungry and fat and lonely and stained in the blood of hitchhikers who hadn’t known better than to get into his car. So fuck it, and fuck him. 

Burning now. The road behind us is burning now. It’s been burning for days, I think. 
We just keep driving.

We’re laying around her apartment, smeared in sexual fluids and melted chocolate. The secret police are arming-up outside, and readying themselves to take us by force. 

“All I’ve ever wanted,” she says, staring out the window as she puts a cigarette out against the eyeball of one of the high school jocks she brought home for the warm-up, “is to watch this city burn, like sand melting into glass.” 

We’re living in the moment, now. Not worrying about the past, which is full of cavemen, or the future, from which we’ve stolen jet-packs. 

Me, I’ve been eating candy for days. I’ve got guts full of gummy worms, all twisted into knots. I sweat artificial colourings, and I poop pure, refined white sugar. Ants follow me wherever I go, feeding on the leavings in my wake.

How much longer can we keep going like this? What fuels us on? What motivates us? What keeps us on the road, or in the sky? Is it all just a sugar-high fuck-fest above the clouds? Or is there something more to it all? 

I don’t know. I’m slipping into a dream-like state, where everything’s glowing, and shimmering, and bright. I feel like I’m being knocked, face-first, into the fire. 

But really, we’re just waking up on a Tuesday morning. With stuff to do. 

Come on, repress your joys. Girls, break your toys. 

She plugs me in and tunes me up, like I’m some sort of frequency she can ride. She makes me loud. She licks me electric. 

She’s just another blue-skinned bitch from another world. She’s got eighteen rows of vampire-teeth going all the way down her throat. She’s got a T-shirt on, two-sizes too tight, that reads FREE BLOWJOBS across her tits. The F is on one nipple. The last E is on the other. 

Her eyes remind me of a dead film-star, trapped forever in celluloid. She’s like the perfect image, with no substance. She’s like a smooth drink of water, mixed half-and-half with drain-cleaner. 

All I want is for her to know me, and love me. All she wants is to fuck me until my bones break and my spine snaps and blood comes bursting out my pores. Heads exploding like in Anime. Sheets stained with only the sexiest of bodily fluids. 

She makes me take her by force, and then she stick the fangs in.

We have, what some might call, an understanding. 

She went digging around in my mind, looking for an excuse, or maybe a weapon. Something she could use against me. 

She found an army of broken transsexuals, and she stripped them down for parts, making some monster out of fishnet-tights and girlish panties slung for an oversized cock. Undergarments dripping with in baby-oil and dark body-hair. 

I wanted her to come into my world, to stick her tongue in my mouth, to see a bit of her skin flash across my palette. I wanted her to tattoo something abstract and bloody across me, like a car accident cut into my skin. Well, maybe I just wanted her.

She smiled like she was a vampire, watching the sun go down. Then she got down on her knees, and gave me a kiss, both lips parting to show me the way. 

I fell into her, as you might, when you’re falling into things. You tumble, downwards, into the light. Her hands on your shoulders, weighing you down and down and down.

Eventually I wake up, bruised and sticky like a half-eaten peach. 

She’s somewhere across the room, partially-asleep, with the scene of the crime smudged all over her lips. 

I breathe easy, while she’s still around. 

She was the perfect lover, built out of bits I found online. 

She crawled into my bed like a serial killer. She moved through the city like a snake.

I ask her to get me a glass of milk, but when she gets back, I ask for a bowl, as well. She gets the bowl, and then I tell her to fill it with milk. I see her get a nervous look in her eyes, just slightly.

Once the bowl is full, I tell her to put it on the floor. She does, and then turns to look back at me.

“Now drink it.”

She pauses, and then gets down on her knees. She puts a hand to either side of the dish, and she puts her face to the bowl. “Like this?” she asks.

She laps at the cream, and I know I want her now. I want her so much that it feels like something inside me is burning. Like a need for violence, or a hungering for something tasty. It’s a craving, and it starts and ends, with her.

Before long, she’s made a mess, thick cream all over face, some of it choking down her throat. Droplets spilled on the floor “Now come here,” I tell her. 

She looks at me like I might own her, if I’ve got the will for it. If I’ve got the strength to withstand her. Yeah, she draws me down, like I’m floating to the bottom of the sea. 

The best part about making love to her, was the way she cried. 

She entered my bed like an invading force, or a force of nature. An earthquake comes knocking, knocking at your door. A storm rattles the window, and forces cold wet drops of rain across your pillow. 

She cries cool wet drops across my pillow. She yowls like a cat and wimpers like something small and lost. 

She clings to me. To the idea of me. To my flesh and my bones. She holds me close, like she’s a hungry little fat kid, trying to swallow a whole popsicle in one go. She wants to wrap her tongue around me, yeah, and feel me start to dissolve. She wants me in her mouth, and down her throat. Splattered against her thighs like a painting of roadkill. 

Now me, I didn’t want to go blind, I just wanted to see her as she really was. She drew me in with kisses, and doodled my outline on the floor with the tip of her knife. “Now,” she said, looking down at me, her knife in her hand, “it looks like somebody died here.”

I wrestled with her; with the idea of her. Possessing her, pounding into her with furious insights. Understanding and enlightening her. 

She left town on a Freudian construct of images; a train through a tunnel.

She left town, and I kept her number close at hand, tattooed to my heart. 

We had a very sexual relationship, but it was a very digital one too. 

We never met; she just downloaded my instructions, like I’d written a book on how to obey me and follow me around. 

She took artful, nude photos, and then photoshopped herself into them. The pictures would come with little notes, “That’s me, hidden behind the tall oak tree.” Or, “There I am, just in around the giant black dildo.” 

There were quiet times, like waiting for an email response, which felt like waiting for a ride to stop. I could almost hear her, typing, touching herself… There was a texture to the moment, like nipples sliding across a screen. 

She reached through my meanings and intents and the thousands of miles between us, and she tried to find me, in amongst all the garbage generated by my personality. The spiralling chords of my junk DNA slamming up against my insides like a fly trapped behind glass. She reached for me, and caught hold of some ethereal aspect of what I am.

In her hands I trembled, frayed, and was understood to be made whole again.

We were close, intimate, strangers. I didn’t know her real last name, and she loved me only for my strange and sometime unwieldy bodily responses. 

She was like a kiss from the other side of the grave, turned digital. 
A bit of fornication hidden in the middle of a fax. 

“I was hoping you’d still be here when I woke up,” I said to myself, coming to in the big bed all alone. 

I woke up, with all my keys twisted into knots. All my coins folded into little bent bits of meaninglessness. I’d written a book of love-letters, but they all blew away in the breeze, and got carried off to snotty pretty teenagers who’ll never appreciate something like love until they’re too old be beautiful anymore. 

My best friend was John, the Locked door that lived across the hall. 

“You want to understand it?”

I’m imagining the sky caving in. I’m imagine if all that blue just collapsed down upon us, like a bunch of cement stones that could no longer be held aloft by pencil-tracings of belief. 

“You want to understand me?”

I’m flicking lighters, trying to light fires. 
If you cut my veins, I’d bleed black flames.

She’s somewhere else, waiting tables or waiting on me to suddenly appear. She’s sleeping in other beds and answering to other names. She wears make-up like seven different masks, which can only be peeled off underwater. 

She wants to be taken underwater. She wants to be held under. She wants to lose her breath. She wants to be breathless, so I hold my hand over her nose and mouth while we make love, and even when she thrashes I hold it there, and even when there’s panic in her eyes, I hold it there, and when I release it, she cries for three hours, and then tells me she loves me, pays, and leaves. 

If she was ever there at all. I notice things showing up in these hotel mirrors; fake lives and faux lovers that just whistle through the empty space like a masturbator’s conversation with the unknown.

She breathes easier when she knows I’m okay. 
So I lie to her.
Because she doesn’t understand how I get off on my own pain.
She doesn’t understand how much I love my stupidity.  

This thing you call “cosplay”… 
I’ve been doing it every day of my life since I was five.
Of course I always emulate my heroes. What kind of a life are you trying to live?

There is some disparity amongst the illusions. 

We think we’re seeing straight, but really, we’re trapped in a cage of light. Thick bars made of beams of light. Walls of intensified nothingness blocking out the outside world. 

There’s an old man, creeping around outside. He’s the suit a monster wears; a monster as big as a city block, with tentacles that choke and claws that tear. You can see the old man bulging, around the eyes and genitalia, as the monster fights to be free of its costume. The costume is too tight. The monster is too hungry. The ground beneath its feet, shutters as it steps.

A crow follows the old man down the street, swooping lazily through the air and cawing half-heartedly to warn the others of his approach. The crow warns the city of the coming of the old man who is just a suit the monster wears. The crow’s cries are long and skeletal, like you can hear the echoes bouncing off of fleshless bones. 

I’ve taken my lover to the rooftop, to watch the city falter. My lover is a pretty young boy with a deep tan and long black hair. He’s got fake teeth, fake ID, and a fake eye that glistens like oil in moonlight when the street-lamps hit it. Well, he says he’s my lover, but all he really loves, is to lie. Me, I take what I can get. 

It’s dawn in the city. Monsters dressed as old men, and slow-moving birds, are all that’s really aware or awake out there. They’re passing time without much effort, and looking for little forgotten things to claim as their own; empty cans and lost children. 

It’s dawn in the city; I cough up grey phlegm in my throat, and spit it over the side. My thickened saliva falls eighteen floors, and hits the ground like a shattered egg. I hug my arms to my chest. The wind, like some haunted dog, begins to howl.