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.

She was a mutant bird; five feet tall and bright pink, like a budgie in a bikini that weighted about a hundred a thirty pounds. I was a smart-ass kid from the suburbs with a hole in through my head big enough to drop quarters through.

I don’t know how I got it; I forget now.

We were the main characters of our own series of adventure-novels. We drove around the world, having crazy adventures and saving the world from baddies. We kicked asses and we loved like we drank - hard.

She drove this banana-yellow convertible, some old school model outfitted with Tesla Coils and stolen licence plates. The cops knew it on sight, and kept their heads down when we came through town. 

We shot clouds out of the sky and left broken bits of clowns dripping from our bumpers.

We were legendary, but the movie was shit. It’s usually the case.

The circus is coming to town: rush down to the big open field to watch them setting up! See the acts before they start the show! 

Look: It’s a pack of miniature dragons! Only inches long, these little flying monsters are capable of exhaling flames that’ll light your cigarette or remove an eyebrow! 

Watch: the amazingly unbearded woman is shaving her trick otters! She’s so beautiful, with those strange little teeth, and elongated fingers. If you ask her nice, she might let you peek up under her skirt, so you can see how she got her name.

Observe: The Invisible Lovers, known only by their sounds of copulation and the wet stains they leave behind. How much would you pay to know? Probably everything you’ve got.

Check it: they’re setting up the Wonderwall! Nobody feels the way I feel about you now. You never knew it, you’ll never really get it, but it’s so fucking true, that it breaks my heart a dozen ways to see you deny it. Nobody feels the way I feel about you now. All those walked winding roads. Blinding lights. The Wonderwall is built of golden bricks, and it climbs up into the sky like a false sun. Watch it grow! You might be the one that’ll save me.

Yes, the circus has come to town, with all its tricks and shows. 

Smile bright, and take my hand. We’ll go down and see it all together. 

I sound her out; she sounds like bad advice. Bad advice, from a good friend.

I sound her out, test her out in my mouth, run her over my lips and tongues like she’s running me over with her car. She drives a big, fast car. Like the kind driven by dames, in old movies. It’s not very fuel-efficient, but it’s nice to look at. Smooth. Sleek. Aerodynamic.

She’s dynamic; like pop rocks and soda, making your guts bleed and burst. She’s pop rocks and drain cleaner; a caustic blend of sweet sugars and chemical combinations that burn. 

I feel sort of burned, from my time with her. Burned out, like I was used for too long. Burned up, like I was something to be consumed. 

I sound her out; her name, her voice. I try her on for size, see how she fits. She’s like a glove, a thin plastic glove applied for health reasons, or maybe I’m just doing my hair. I’m not sure what I’m doing, but I’m for sure doing her. She fits me, it’s a fitting situation, snug like a glove. Snug like a bug, in a rug.

I sound her out, her vowels and participles; I let them dangle from my lips like spit. Then I swallow her, her sounds, her voice, her gentle little suggestions of silence. Swallow her up tight. 

You make me think of Johnny Cash singing. You know, something throaty and dry, and wet with the sort of whisky that makes you sad and mean inside. 

You make me think of some mad whore, who just can’t take it anymore, standing on the edge of town in a torn ballroom gown, hands full of steel. Voice calling out full of rage.

Yeah, you make me think, and I say your name, 

No-

No, I say something else instead. I can’t let you see me, not when I’m so tired, not when I’m so scared of falling over.

You make me think of dirt under my feet. Big boot stomping. Horses about to start running wild. A storm is coming, from somewhere real far off, and still that crazy whore is there. She really just can’t take it anymore. She’s armed herself, and she’s set the church on fire.

She’s walking down the street, and she’s taking names. 

And hell follows with her. 

I’m fixing myself today. I’m affixing a smile to my face, and I’m going out hunting for whores and breakfast. 

I’m a control freak who’s in love with chaos. It leaves me condescending and cruel, capable of only loving the hardest, strongest souls. I just love fucking with things; ideas, mentalities, people. I just love fuckin’ about. Lying, lying around, treating myself to treats, and treating today like something matters.

You matter. Well, you’re made up of matter, and I’m thinking about making out with you. I’m thinking about going so down on you that I wind up under you, on the other side of you, I’ll just pass straight through the earth and tumble on down to the infinity of crap that goes on beneath us.

You matter to me. Your matter on mine. You’re on my mind. Your matter is on my mind. Your flesh is a little song I’m singing all day. Yeah, it sounds all romantic right? I love your flesh, your skin, your meat. I’m just like “tits tits tits and some nice ass ass ass”. That’s real romantic right? 

Romance is really all about how deeply you bite.

Everything I love about you is deep, from your conversation to your cunt.