She wants to be seduced; I can see it in her eyes. I can see a misplaced sense of longing that longs to be pulled upon. I could unravel her sweater with a word, and leave her standing there naked, as she longs to be.

I want to hold her down, without holding her back. I want to help her fly, or maybe just suspend her from my ceiling, by rows of little fish-hooks.

We go for walks in the park, out where the paths are littered with the skeletons of little birds, where empty balloons bounce around fields of green glass that smells of broken booze. We hold hands and watch the clouds evaporate into the sky. Everything fades away, higher and higher, into the night.

Fades, and is gone.

She’s not gone, she’s still right here. There’s a sadness in her eyes, and I want to replace it with wanton longing, or some form of cold compassion. Any kind of passion, really. Almost any kind will do. 

She always remembers my birthday, but never gets me gifts.

That’s okay. I can take what I want from the edge of her lips.

She’s got a bum, one of those bums, a fine bum, like somebody chewed up a wad of bright pink bubblegum and blew a big smooth bubble with it. She’s got a bubble-bum, and it warbles down the street after her as she runs. 

Watch it, watch her, go. 

She’s a vigilante artist, or maybe she’s a delivery girl. Maybe she’s a street-wise hustler, a hooker with two hearts and a lung of solid gold. She’s inedible, but tasty. A naughty, neurotoxic tramp. 

WHEN I WAS MADE KING OF TERMINAL CITY, the first thing I did, was to release all the rats, all the liars, all the discontents and malcontents who’d been picked up by the authorities and locked away in the vaults below city-hall. I gave them all clean clothes, and jobs, and homes which they quickly abandoned; they liked it better on the streets, where all the atmosphere was. 

“King,” they’d say to me, because by then, nobody could remember my name, “you’ve done us proud, us freaks and misshapen blobs. You’ve given us something to look towards, to strive for, to want to be. And though you might never see it in our eyes, or hear it in our voices, we love you for it. We love you, one and all, and we’ll never forget this kindness.”

Yeah, I was King of Terminal City. I was master of domain, I was the ruler of a crooked city populated by crooked little lives.

And her.

With that butt like bubble of bubblegum, about to burst. 

With that cocky smile that made me think of oral sex.

She was like some homeless princess, or a bus-bound pickpocket. I stayed out of her way, but I kept one eye on her at all times. 

Even now. 

She feels like butter, melting against me. She gets between the grooves of my fingerprints. I feel her staining my shirt, and the front of my pants. 

Her teeth spell out her name, a signature of bites torn into flesh. 

I want to take drugs and betray all my friends. I want to rat out my lovers to the cops. I want to fall from an impossible height; I want to fall into love, like love’s a dozen giant creamy cakes all laid out for me to topple into.

She has a mouth full of stolen words. Her teeth are all twisted sideways, leaving a signature of bloody traces up and down the parts of me that she’s the most orally fixated upon. 

I wish I was a warrior of the all-hit-record scene. I wish I hadn’t partied so hard last life. I wish I’d partied a little harder last night. I wish I could remember her name. I wish we’d had a bit more of a conversation before we’d switched underwear. 

Now I’m running; cheating; stealing. I got a mouthful of memories dripping down the page, and an agenda of totally taking over your silly little precious little world/life.

I loved her like a bomb going off. I loved her like a facial burn. I loved her, but I never learned her name or where she lived. We just held hands and watch the sky catch fire, as the world turned to smoke and ash.

Look way up above; you see that figure, crouched on the other side of the clouds? It’s endlessly large and hateful; a thousand times larger than the earth itself, just dying to get in and tear us apart. Yeah, I look up at the sky, and I see an angry god, trying to slice the day open, so as to tear this planet apart. 

Ah, but I loved her. If those words even mean anything at all, anymore. I loved her, devoured her, spied on her; I invented online identities just to send her fan mail. I changed so much about myself, I hardly recognized my own ego in the mirror.

She bit into me like I was almost over-ripe. 

And she swallowed my soul like semen. 

She asked me, anonymously, “why don’t you love me anymore?”

I told her, “I never did. I just loved that costume you’d wear for me. I never even realized there was a person under it all. I thought it was a series of automated responses. I thought it was battery plugged into something mechanized.”

Her eyes are soft and sad, like somewhere I could lay down and stay for a while. Curl up tight upon yourself, and just cry yourself to sleep. Cry me to sleep. Cry me a nice little river to drown in. Hold me down, tears seeping into my lungs like ocean water. Like dying under perfectly clear waves.

Like dying frozen under glass.

She asks me, anonymously, “do you still think about me?”

I tell her, maybe. I tell her, sometimes. I tell her, what I think she wants or needs to hear. I tell her what I have to, the words forcing themselves out of my mouth like a viral attack. My ideas in her head, my little letters spelling out messages in her head.

This is one of them. Her robot head was swapped with yours, and now you’re thinking her same thoughts too. The plagiarism of ideals; a pirate radio broadcast of internalized frequencies. Get off my heart-beat. She gets off, on my heart-beat. 

She asks me, anonymously, “do you think we’ll ever fuck?”

I’m not sure what she’d call this. 

Her clockwork heart slows, and spits a broken gear into the sand. 

Throw the map away. Say “fuck it.” Push down on the gas pedal, and start to drive. 

She starts to laugh, and she starts to start fires. She dripping gasoline from her fingertips and she’s dropping lit matches from her mouth. 

Her teeth are as red as blood, or maybe that’s a trick of the light. Maybe she’s just got a mouth full of blood, like she’s been sucking boys dry all night. Her teeth, if she’s got them, are as red as blood, but everything about her is just a trick of the light.

I’d pay good money to have her gouge my eyes out. Gouge me out and replace me with something shinier and fresher and something less plagued by doubts and anger. I’d pay good money to have her split herself in half and burn the world while she’s at it. I’d pay good money to have a nice long bad day. I’d give everything I’ve got to share it with you.

She debases me, with her music, with her sense of humour. I make plans and she pisses all over them. She shoves me, facedown, into the trunk of her car, and she takes me with her like a bad memory she can’t seem to escape. I’m something she can’t ever get over, when she’s backing over me with her car. 

She can’t back out of this. She can’t get through it. She just put combustibles on the open fire, and walks away slowly. 

I wanted to tell you, I wanted to remind you, I wanted to make you feel something that’d make you come back. I wanted to be that cigarette you were reaching for without thinking about it. I wanted to be the buzz of caffeine deprivation that made you angry without realizing it. I wanted the lack of me to make you snappish and irritable. 

The abundance of me does it too. Just as well. I can see it, hear it.
You get like an angry old waitress who’s spent too many years on her feet. You look at me like you’ve heard it all before, and you know you’re going to have to hear it all again, and you’re fucking tired. You know I won’t tip enough. You know its still hours to go before another break. I know you’re getting tired of me, and I’m getting tired of the service.

I didn’t want to be your broken-down car on the side of the road. I wanted to be something that made you feel good, not caught up in the gears. I didn’t want to grind you down. I didn’t mean to use you so hard and thoughtlessly. 

I fill my lungs with blood and my veins with smoke. 

I struggle to shut myself up, and down. 

Yeah you’d love making love to me; the way I get distracted and wander out of the room halfway through; my lies about the length of time the hot water stays on in the shower; the strange woodland creatures that creep about my apartment, documenting all sexual events for their own collectives of knowledge. 

We’d stand naked by the window, overlooking all the children of the working class as they were whipped off to labour in the slave pits, whipped by black-suited comptrollers with evil red eyes and big pointy fangs. We’d drink wines brought to us by blind, hobbled slave peoples; beautiful boys and girls disfigured by misery and misuse.

We could take those sexy drugs I love taking so much; the kind that make me sweat cod liver oil and give your cunt the taste of over-chewed bubble-gum. Drugs that keep us up for three days straight and then give us the dreams of schizophrenic shoplifting bakers. 

And when it was all over, you’d always remember at least the first of the many false identities I revealed to you; you’d always remember that back alley cardboard box I called my home, and the dead pigeon I claimed was my roommate. 

We’d make some amazing memories together, you and I, you and I, you and myself. 

“I’ve got the urge to write, but I’ve got nothing to say.” 

She stares straight through me as I speak. I’m build out of fragile glass, and her gaze is made of hammers. Angry hammers, seeking out blood and carnage and just generally the ability to make me feel a banged up inside.

“I’m trying to form an audience, a whole world of precious individuals to ignore.”

She hears my words, and turns them into little butterflies. She pins the butterflies to a corkboard and labels them mean little words like “Frightened” and “Tepid” and “Worthless”.

“I need to be loved in my absence.”

She sees me only in my absence. She can feel that part of the room that I’m not in, she can hear the way the air the moves when I’m not around to breathe it in. 

“I’m falling apart, and reassembling as I move on.”

I want to talk to you. I want to use my voice. I want to share something to you, that’s how I sound, how I lie. I want to give you a sound that’s the shape of how I feel, just for a moment, or maybe two. Maybe a bit more than I could ever know.

I want to share myself across your lips. I want to be on your mind, in your heart; I want to be a part of you, but still myself. I want to feel you wanting me. I want to feel your hands on your body, wanting all that dumb stuff I say and do. 

I want you to remember, just the bits I inscribed for gold and glory. 

I want to be with you, wanting you, being wanted in return. 

I want to fall out of the sky without a dream in my head.

It’s been like sound and madness, is what it’s been like, but not so you’d notice, or at least, not in a negative way. It’s just a gentle bombardment of sensation, a dizzying array of emotions, all spinning around like dinner plates in a novelty act.

I tried art, I tried magic, I tried personality, and yet still, I wound up feeling this creeping sense of ennui that I keep thinking I can drug myself into not noticing. I drug myself on indulgences, on thoughts and schemes and long, drawn-out sequences of events featuring warm, twitching little bodies.

Now I’m half-sick from all that stuff, all the candy I’ve eaten twisting and burning in my stomach. I can’t imagine what I could have that’d make me happier than I am, than I’ve been, than I want to be. 

I think about the pursuit of happiness, of hobbies, of things I’d like to do, and why I’d like to do them. I come up with some disturbing answers, I’m not sure how to deal with. I stare darkly at friendly little abysses of thought.

She stares back at me.

Yeah? So yeah.

This is my fourth month at Tumblr, since I got tired of Livejournal fucking with my text. I guess if I want to be a “real writer person” I should actively be trying to reserve my own domain-name to blog through, but I’m not that famous/cool yet, and besides, I prefer the interactions I get through Tumblr. 

I still love the idea of taking all this shit and slamming into a book with funny little illustrations some day, just for those kind of post-modern weirdoes who enjoy books of abstract prose and that… 

Anyway, without trying, without aiming for anything aside from “writing every day, and writing whenever I feel like it,” I’ve been hitting a little over 300 updates a month, which I  guess is just a little over 10 updates a day, which is more than I expected, but I supposed a bunch of those are reposts or news stories, which I don’t do too many of. The majority of those posts are these things; me, writing about writing, and other more dadaist philosophies. 

Writing, yo. I gave up on video games. I don’t socialise as much as I used to. I’m trying to keep some focus about myself. Actually, I don’t know if that’s true, the social part. The video games, for sure. The rest of it, I dunno. I still dance. I still have friends and stuff. Hell, I think I’m a little more inundated with beauty than I ever have been before, to be quite honest about it all. 

It’d cost me Seventeen Bucks to print out Doctor Destroyo (at 1.5 spacing on the lines). That’s not too bad, I guess. Thirty-four bucks to do it twice… Ugh. Well, that’s kind of a dumb way to think about anything. I could maybe do it for cheaper at work, but I’d feel creepy about that. My store ain’t big enough to swallow that kinda thing. 

Anyway. Writing. BLAH BLAH BLAH. 

I’m just a hero, come to save the world. I wear a smart uniform, and I haven’t got a mask, so you know you can trust me, and you can come stop by my home if you want to talk about making a difference out there in the world.

I’m just an anti-hero, having hot sex. I smoke tasty drugs, and I hang out in places I shouldn’t be, just looking cool and solving other people’s problems. 

I’m just a hobo, in a long line of hobos, looking for a pick-up to take me out of town. Some day I’ll find a little cabin, where I’ll live lonely and poor, writing the novel of my life, which will be a big success, once I’m gone.

But I’m not leaving you.

We exploded into life, it seemed. She had her glowing suit of armor, a molecule thick and strong enough to withstand an atomic bomb blast. I had a pair of seemingly magical sneakers that let me run a million miles a minute and made me semi-transparent whenever sunlight struck me.

We exploded onto the scene like a new electronic band, like a bunch of lost birds descending on the city. 

I held her hand and released the bombs. She protected me, and kept me safe from harm as I released wave after wave of murderous mechanical mice. The mice hate the flesh creatures like human beings and everything else with a pulse. It’s on a matter of time before the city is ours.

All my plans involve some crumbling around the edges, like a cookie dunked in warm milk.

All my lovers have blood on their breath. 

If you and I held hands and went running, I’d let you carry the gun, and I’d just stick a knife between my teeth, so that way, when they saw us coming, they’d know that we meant business of very serious nature.

I’d love to sit with you to watch something beautiful burn up. I’d love to see the clouds catch fire as the sun set. I’d love to bury something important on the dark side of the moon.

But you, you’ve got that way of looking at me that makes me squirm, makes me feel like you’re seeing through my thoughts, through my skin… It’s like you know just how to look through my diary to find all the pages with your name written on them. It’s like you know what I’ve been thinking, the day before I’ve thought it.

I feel like I could spend all day just translating the coded frequency of your smile.

I feel wrapped in the electrical signal of your digital desires.