Arson Always Makes Her
She had an extra set of genitalia that plugged into the wall; she could use it for multiple-penetration sequences, and it also played six different types of video games, and functioned as an old-style fax machine when it wasn’t coated in lube.
She said something like, “are you done with that pie yet?” She was always more interested in stealing my meals than in ordering off of a menu. Half a plate of fries, and six bites of burger. Bit of a strawberry milkshake. She reminded me of a special-effect, or a drug trip. Drippy, or fuzzy around the edges, like an image with low resolution, or maybe something that was spray-painted a little too hastily for smooth animation.
She carried a sword, partially because I asked her too, because it looked so fucking hot when she carried an eight-foot-long samurai sword over her shoulder when she was dressed in nothing but black bikini-panties and a pair of sunglasses, and partially because she liked to swing the thing around, decapitating fools and scratching up fancy automobiles.
We were in some no-name cafe with cheap seats and flickering xmas lights in place of regular bulbs. It was like a lame twelve year-old’s idea of a 1990’s rave experience, but with coffee and stuff to eat. A bit of bass pumped from broke-ass speakers in the shape of asses, mounted high on the walls. “Pisst-bump-bump-pisst-bump-bump” sang the electronic tones, rattling the speakers on their mounts.
“Well fuck it then,” she said, “if it’s not true love, let’s just burn it all down,” and then before I could figure out what she meant by that, we were up and out of our seats, a garbage bag full of gasoline in our seat by the window, a match, flickering through empty space towards the collected pool of combustable liquid.
The whole place went up with a belch of fire. A bunch of rednecks started screaming, but we were already cutting our way, literally, through the parking-lot, towards some fancy rich-man’s car we were looking to steal.
We’d need to get on the road, but even more than that, we’d need to find a place to stop.
Arson always makes her wet.
They Call This Narcissism, Sometimes
I am not a good man, a kind man, a perfect man.
I am built out of flaws like a house is built out of bricks.
She holds my hand, in the dark of the room. The curtains are drawn and the blinds are down. The air conditioner is ticking like a bomb. Outside the window, the city is hustling like a colony of ants, striving to strip the meat from some massive carcass.
I am not a common man. I am not easy to find. I am not a lie you can put in your mouth and carry around all day, sharing it with your friends and neighbours. There’s just enough of me to tuck under your tongue; just enough to chew up and blow away.
I make love like there’s a camera in the room, and I write like I need to type myself out of my own life, or at least the parts that are steeped in poverty. All my poetry is steeped in poverty; I can’t lust cleanly without checking my bank balance first. It takes a certain amount of cash to care.
I am not a pretty girl. I am not a song you can sing on an acoustic guitar. I am not a husband or a father or a thief. Hell, I’m barely even me. Why would you ask for so much more?
She smiles at me like she’s putting out a cigarette in my eye. I chew up the pain and spit out hungry kisses.
Trespass In My Yard
Come be my blind date.
Stand on the edge of the city me. We’ll watch the clouds start to burn and fall to the ground as liquid ash. We’ll stand up high, where the wind threatens to blow the towers down, where concrete sways in the breeze, and we’ll kiss the sky.
We’ll climb straight down the side of the beast; no time for stairs!
Be my signal from the heart of the sun; some sign that’s something living deep down inside of all that heat. Set my starship to STUN. Lick me open and turn the best parts of me on into glass. Shatter my goddamn heart across the stars.
Be cool. Be funny. Be mine.
Wrap your words around me. Tell me your stories, who you were, where you were, and why. Show me what it means to you. Display your past like it’s some pretty piece of fabric you can wear draped across your naked form. Reveal to me, and revel in it.
What I Like About Her
Me and you… we’re less than strangers, more than lovers. We’re like dreams you can’t quite remember, dreams where you’re naked and sexual and scared, or maybe just scarred.
Yeah, you’re all kinds of naked under those scars. Naked thoughts dripping blood and stray paragraphs of prose all down the day. Naked emotions burning raw, glittering like stars buried deep under the sea.
All I want is to find a way to say things right, to communicate a real idea, to say this thing to you and to say it completely, before the words escape my mouth all together. Before I find myself joking, choking, on the sort of smooth rhetoric usually reserved for violent outbursts.
What I like about you, is all those dirty thoughts I can see you thinking when you smile at me. What I like about you, is the way you like me too. What I like about you, is, you really know what I like about you, which is the ways you like me too.
Yeah, I like being liked by you. Liked and licked, like a popsicle that’s more pop that sicle. More sugar than ice.
She distracts me with what I want to see most; an honest thought…
A Man Of Health And Waste
What puzzles you, is the nature, of my fame.
Shit I’ve Done
For those of you just checking in with me here and now…
I am Savage Henry Lee. This is my blog, where I write dadaist beatnik prose, usually connected to themes of violence, sexuality, fire, kinetic motion, and 90’s-style cultural rebellion.
I have Savage Selections, which is where I reproduce stuff I like that other people write.
I also have Savaged Text, which is where I put my really adult “Oh baby, I wanna get in your pants and do stuff and yeah like that,” sorta writing. Yeah.
There’s also Perpetrating Ontological Thuggery, which is where I reproduce funny images I see here. So there’s that.
Off of Tumblr, my big thing is The Young Offenders, an online comic I’m the writer and co-creator on. I think we’re on a semi-permanent hiatus at this point, but it’s still some 60 pages of violence and darkness and nasty little kids being awesome.
And that’s about me!