I Hope You Come Here All The Time
She’s got me set on Repeat, and tuned into Random.
Baby, I wanna be your vampire. I want to come for you in the night. I want to open you up and drink your blood. I want to command your heartbeat. I want to hear the disco-dance of the pulsing in your veins.
Baby, I wanna be your UFO. I want to come for you in the night. I want to be your abduction experience. I want to be the probe that enters you when you’re not sure where you are or which way is up. I want to hear you struggle to breathe when there’s no gravity or reason to fall.
I wanna be your beat-up taxi cab. I want to come for you in the night. I want to pick you up at a bad situation, and drop you off at the airport. I want you to admit a secret to me, because you’re leaving town, and never looking back.
Baby, I wanna be your rainstorm. I want to come for you in the night. I wanna get you wet, like you’re crying or full of lust.
Baby, I wanna be your porn star. I want to come for you in giant, climatic bursts.
I want to come for you like a hired killer. Like a good dog. Like the hour that’s at hand.
I want to come for you like a revolution, like a secret in the night.
I want you, I want you, I want you, I don’t even really know you that well.
I woke up with nails in my head and blood on my pillow. I woke up feeling frustrated and old and out of shape. If I was meant to be a cube, I am now a sphere. If I was meant to be strong and solid, I am now weak and frayed.
I feel like a fictional character, waiting to be believed in. An ancient god, long forgotten, or maybe the background character in a big dramatic piece. Yeah, that’s me in the crowd scene. That’s me, set against the horizon. That’s me, one of the stars you see, when the shuttle rockets by on its way to space.
I want somebody to kiss these blood tears away. I want a sandwich and a vacation. I need a new suit, a new dress-shirt, and a place to sit, where I can get my head together.
I want to stop being so self-obsessed, and be obsessed with somebody cool for a while. Somebody worthwhile and distracting. I want to crawl back under my rock, and wait for its weight to crush me into the earth.
I wake up some mornings, and I just feel dirty and scared and useless. There’s no sex in me, no violence. Just a tired sense of abandonment.
Like a heavy chain, I drag myself down, under the waves.
To think about things.
She Burns Like Sugar Kisses
She wakes up like a flaming being struck; she comes to life in a flare of heat and light, singeing my fingertips and growling grey smoke around her edges.
She wants to rob the candy store; she wants to steal sugar-bombs for all the cute girls that live on our street. Yeah, she wants to blow pink bubblegum bubbles, and to flirt with all the pretty girls. Make them notice, make them dizzy with a suger-high.
She wears red liquorice lipstick, and she carries a gun that shoots cotton-candies in big clouds that burn like mace if they get into your eyes. You want a taste of that? Sweet, sweet vengeance.
She has six cups of coffee with artificial sweetener. She stirs them up with a silver spoon that’s twisted like a corkscrew; the silver spoon was twisted with strange mental powers that were capable of warping hard metals from across the room, with nary a touch or sound.
We’re like lovers in every way, except for the affection. There’s nothing warm or caring, about the ways she loves me, or holds me tight.
I tell her, “My brain is like a playground; it’s full of sand and poo. Children frolic in it, and wild animals defecate there.”
Untitled, Unloved, Unadorned By Splendid Things
She put her hands on my heart and said, “Here now, let me fix you.” And then she tore it from my chest.
The thing she put back in its place was like a crudely hateful robot spider; too many limbs, too much hunger and distaste for the living. It wove a web of barbed-wire, strung about the empty chasm of my chest, where my heart had been.
Outside my window, babies are crying and small dogs are barking all day. It’s like a symphony of disharmony. It’s like an unending world of brutal distaste. I have these fantasies about walking out there, and facing them all down. I’ll kill that neighbour’s dog. I’ll tell the parents what shitty human beings they are. Shame. Shame, and death.
Yeah, she put a big animatronic arachnid inside of me, and it’s eating away at my guts. It’s shitting harsh oils into my bloodstream. It’s laying its eggs up inside my skull, squeezing out any room for my thoughts, for my mind. The eggs are angry, twisting masses of rotting matter that stink of a combination of organic death and new car smell.
She lays me down like a lover, and stitches me up like a surgeon with alcohol poisoning. She cements my mouth shut, and she fills my ears with songs about lies.
She Won’t Stop For Me
She was my muse; she amused me, and she moved me. She made me want things. She compelled me to hate things, to want to destroy things.
Yeah, she made me want to ruin everything in the world. For her. With her.
I see her from a distance off; she has sexy weekends with boys and girls I’d never want to stand to close to. She tells lame jokes and laughs at stuff I can’t find funny.
Sometimes I want her so bad it hurts, and I can’t tell you why. She doesn’t make me laugh, she barely makes me smile. She’s as much the mosquito on my camping trip, as she is the orgasm to my sexual function. She’s the whole in my canteen, that lets all my goodness leak away, unknowingly, down my leg as I climb the mountain.
She was an ocean I wanted to get to the bottom of. I wanted to walk around in her darkness, touching her private, personal possessions. I wanted to be one of them; I wanted her to want to keep me around. I wanted to feel her fingers tie around my neck, as she pulled me down towards her.
She’s my muse, my absent lover; she’s one of those things I think about obsessively, when I should be doing something useful with my life. I should go for a run, feed some animals, write a letter to an old friend.
But she’s on my mind; like fuel to a junkie’s wants. Like a fire that won’t stop burning.
I’m trying to put her out of my mind.
But she won’t stop burning.
Outside, It’s Raining Quite A Lot
I’m sorry we had to meet like this; half in secrecy, half in love. I’m sorry we couldn’t have just waded out into the sunshine like soft-eyed children, holding hands and humming softly with religious fervour.
Instead, we find ourselves here, trapped under a sky that hangs like cement ruins over our heads. The sky is black and cracked with thin lines of grey. The sky appears haunted, and lonely, like a sad man drinking alone to forget his long lost lover.
The sky does not love you, it only hides the sun.
I’m sorry we had to meet here, in this broken half-a-world. This breeding ground for parasites and ex-boy-and-girlfriends. Sad photos of missing children bloom on the tips of trees; cold-eyed images that flicker in the twilight as though they were going to all run off and play.
And maybe they did.
I wish it could’ve been a bit nicer when we met; instead it’s raining acid outside, and in here, a dirty digital dust is hanging heavily overtop of everything.
You’re All Those Bad Ideas I Loved
Be my robot queen bee, okay? Have a heart that can’t be broken. Be strong and function as an alarm clock. Be made of soft metals and have built in laser-cannons. Fucking love me, okay? Fucking appreciate me, like only a robot lover could - a sort of smooth, emotionless appreciation, like admiring a ruthless killer who really loves his work.
Break into my heart late at night and leave me strange messages written in my own blood. Leave me your telephone number, your email address, your favourite flavour of tea and what the fuck you ever saw in me in the first place.
I know we’re not quite on the outs yet, but you sure do set my little world on fire whenever you cross through here with those molten embers trailing from your sentiments.
Do you know what I mean? Are you tuning this in? Are you sensitive to the frequency of my broadcast? Or are you just laughing at me behind that beautiful sense of sincerity that bleeds out of you like some sort of messianic figure nailed to some sort of cross section of wooden pieces?
Her Name Is: “No”. Well…
She force-fed me cupcake kisses; icing mounted on her lips like a dead body mounted on the hood of the car. Yeah, she drives back into town, showing me off like a prize she won on the boardwalk by the beach.
I’m just a thirty-three year-old dirtbag, baby;
Listening to covers of pop songs on youtube, maybe.
I was hoping we could be close, I was hoping we could get to know each other a bit better. I was hoping we wouldn’t have to lie together all night. I was thinking maybe we could just get into bed & tell truths. You remember the truth, right? You sold me a whole mouthful of it that one time.
She breaks down my door, packing guns and knives like chapstick and loose change.
She breaks down my heart like there’s a fire burning on the other side, and maybe, baby, there is.
In space, no one can hear you dream.
We float, effortlessly, like clouds that shall never give up their rain. We float like corpses in a river, like bugs on a breeze.
The walls of our starship are hard plastics and metals, bending in on each other in thickening layers, almost like a thing alive. It breathes, providing us with oxygen. It swims forward, giving us motion that translates to something like a million miles a moment. I blink and we’re gone, I blink and we’re gone, I blink and we’re gone.
We’re in a sea of nothing; naked amongst the stars and the cosmic wind. Her nipple aligns with a far-off galaxy, and then the comparison is whisked away as quickly as it came. Her ass wiggles, free of all constraints. I chase her, almost out of instinct.
Up through the ship we fly, as the ship flies up through the universe and on and up and on and up…
I Heard You Thinking About Me
The note was left tacked to her door.
In dreams, I’m your perfect man. I kill. I climb mountains and swim oceans.
I destroy like a motherfucker.
I wake up and I’m weak and little; my hands are numb claws. My wings are broken, gnarled things that stick out from my back like the twisted branches of rotting trees. Under my feet, the ground burns, and burns, and burns.
I want to be your perfect man. I want you to strip me naked with your desire for me. I want you to reach for me with such force that you break my back. Yeah, I want to be busted in half by you, swallowed down by you like a pill.
Gently, she pulled the paper down, and crushed it in her hand.
Tastes Like Tomorrows
We were still in bed when the cops came for us. We were still naked, and eating jam by the spoonful.
They said we were criminals. They said we were bad people. I said we were just hungry, just hungry and looking for some place to lay down for a while.
The mattress under me is soft and squishy. It’s full of sex and blood and other runny bits of humanity. It’s like sleeping on a waterbed full of foam.
The walls in this place are shot through with bullets and disinterest. The whole place is falling into disrepair even as we watch; wallpaper sliding down the walls, plumbing leaking brown waters onto the floor.
The cops come stomping up the stairs in their big black boots, their guns in their hands and their mouths full of commands like “cease and desist” and “freeze suckers” and “don’t you fucking move”. They love this bit; running up stairs and kicking down doors. They look like a troop of soldiers on the warpath.
She drops a match into a bucket of gasoline even as the cops hit our hall, and we’re out the window and onto the fire escape even as the force of those authority figures comes barreling into our home.
There’s an explosion of warm air, and then we’re loose in the air. I can hear the sounds of bodies, cop-bodies, frying in the midday sun, frying the inferno we left behind us like footprints of angry destruction.
She holds me, all the way down. Her voice in my ear, her hands down my pants.
The Almighty Corpse
She takes my hand and tells me, “They’ll find it soon.”
She’s been having dreams again. Dreams where she wakes up, coated in sweat, dreams where she wakes up, screaming words that aren’t in any language she knows, dreams where she seems scared, abused, or on the edge of something terrible.
“Can you imagine the body of a God?” she asks me. “Every molecule of its body like an atomic bomb ready to explode. A lifeless corpse, a billion miles long, floating out in space. Horrible great bacteria, feeding on it within; single-cell organisms as big as your fist.”
She holds my hand, and looks out into the darkness of the night. “I can see it, when I sleep. I know it’s out there. I can almost remember its name.”
She says the corpse of a great and ancient being is floating out there, in the cold of space. “We haven’t found it yet, but we will. And when we do, its going to be terrible.” She holds my hand so tight in her own, and looks into my eyes. “People are going to go mad. They’ll kill themselves in the streets, and burn the churches.They’ll all feel so small and scared…”
She tells me about the coming of the dark times ahead. The rotting corpse of a god would signify the beginning of the end of our species; it would be an ominous portent, and the method by which we would search out our own execution.
“They’ll find it, out there, dead in space. A god longer than our world is wide. A being more brilliant than our sun. And when they do…”
She shutters, and grows quiet, hugging the cold of her body close to me.
Outside, the wind is beginning to howl.
Can’t Be Without Her
She leaned in close, and whispered those six words I’d longed to hear.
“Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself.”
She had her hand wrapped around my cock like she was killing a rattlesnake; choking the life out of it before it could bite. She had herself wrapped around my life like she was an elegantly long boa constrictor; a twenty foot long, bright green snake, with bright red rubies for eyes.
“I want to lay my eggs inside your head,” she told me, her voice still quiet and warm, like a freshly-killed corpse. “I want to replace all your thoughts with identical ones of my own design.” She bit my lip until it bled. “I want to feel you give up.”
I stared at her like her skin was the surface of the sun, and I was waiting to go blind. She was like a golden effigy; a symbol of something more powerful than I could ever imagine. She was darkness brought to life; a virgin doing porn. She was a wild thing, being kept where the tame things were.
She breathed fire into my life.
She turned me to ash on the tip of her tongue.
She Was All Written With Words
We were trapped in a machine, a box of living words.
She was born to fiction. She’s never known what it’s like to really be alive, to be something that pains and ages and changes with time. She was born as a book; her life was omnipresent, written down from beginning to end. She was just living out the motions, the moments, of the page you turned to.
She was beautiful and scarred and newborn and dying of old age, all at once. She was lustful, always so lustful. Eat more, see more, fucking more. She wanted to experience everything that was life, even if it wasn’t hers.
I came to her because I fell in love with her idea, with the concept of this girl, out there, in here, somewhere. I fell into her world, I tumbled headlong into her words.
I got stuck in there. Stuck on her, stuck with her….
All That Was A Short Ideas
N. Sometimes I sit here, in my cloud of smoke, and I look out on the closed blinds of the city, and It think to myself, “aw fuck all that nonsense anyway. I could stab those bastards a thousand times a day, I could eat their children and fuck their eyes, and they’d have forgotten my name in a fortnight. What’s the fucking point of anything, ever at all?”
I’m one of those people who likes having enemies. I think it’s sorta safe to keep something to hate. I accept that other people are ideologically arming themselves against me, and that at some point I’m going to have to give the culture a good infection of myself. I guess maybe I already am, that’s the point. The point is where you jab into their thin little arms with your hungry hypodermics.
My point is: ah, fuck, why not? I’m feeling impure because my motivation is hunger and boredom. Is that a bad reason to want people to love you, because you’re hungry and bored and you want something to play with so you can feel like your big sharp claws aren’t going to waste just clawing at the furniture of the house when there’s nobody around and you can’t sleep late at night?
I just want beautiful things to love me; I want them to love me so they’ll be mine for the taking without my having to put any work into it. I’ll never be that beautiful, but I could fool a few slick cunts into thinking I was that clever. And maybe then, for a second, I would be.
I’d love to be clever, I’d love to slap that clever smile off your lips, I’d love to have just one moment with nothing but sweat and mumbles to keep us apart, I’d love to have some perspective on what I’m doing with myself when I’m smashing up against these, you know, invisible, intangible, indelible walls.