I close my eyes and imagine that I’m dreaming of some perfect fragment of a ultra-world; you know, some place with cities in the clouds and brave soldiers striking back the forces of chaos. 

I wake up amongst garbage and rubble. Heaps of forgotten lives. Abandoned lovers. Treasure turned to trash. 

Up above, a squadron of geese are soaring overhead like angry bombers looking to reduce to the city to a smear of goose-poop. Good. I’ve looked into the heart of this place, and it’ll get what’s coming to it.

In bed, I’m dancing with this girl who’s exploding into orgasms and pixels. She comes like fireworks in a closed fist. Her eyes go wide and her mouth makes a Milo Manara O, and then she makes the music match her motion. She makes the beat follow her.

I’d follow her, into the abyss. Into darkness and unknowing.

Though around here, that’s my every-day.

This is the Alan Moore version of the famous poem about Guy Fawkes. 

Or something.

Remember, remember, the fifth of November,
That’s when I buy some more pot.
I can think of no reason,
And this herb is most pleasin’, 
Something-something, the rest I forgot.

My heart is a little wind-up bomb.

Your fingers are all on the triggers.

You squeeze me and my little eyes bulge out

Like I were a cartoon goat.

You wind me up and set me loose,

Down at the playground in the sand by the swingsets.

I buzz and click around,

Making silly little noises.

And then when I look up,

And I see you’re gone,

I go to explode-

But instead I just rundown,

And my fuse fizzles out,

And my triggers fall quiet.

And there is no earth-shattering kaboom,

In the cavity of my chest,

Where my heart usually lives. 

“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?

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. 

We didn’t have so much as a conversation.

We just stripped off our skins, like snakes unraveling in the sun, and got down to it.

We divided, we unified, and we conquered. 

We breathed smoke and ash and tiny glass fragments. Our eyes were wide and white, dripping tears of blackened blood. Ash and tiny glass fragments get in your eyes, like smoke. You cry thick tears of the blackest blood.

Outside, the wind is shuttering the walls of this ramshackle home. Outside, the world is ending and the sky is falling and the night is crying - wailing - to be let inside, like some long-lost lover dying from the cold.

Inside, she’s all broken promises and languidly soft sexual desires. Her mouth makes a perfect “O”, and breathes a smoke-ring of steamy thoughts in my direction. 

I follow her; of course I do. That’s everything that I am. 

The reason I write 
is to create something 
as beautiful as you 

When I’m with you 
I want to be 
the kind of man 
I wanted to be 
when I was six years old 

A perfect man, who kills. 

- Leonard Cohen

I don’t want any girls today. I don’t want any ice cream. I just want to lay down here, in the sunshine, and die. 

I want to relax, to unfurl, to stop holding back. I want to die.

There’s a song that I love, and it’s coming to an end. It built and it hit its refrain, and now it’s coming to the last little bit.
And I am going to die.

I’m dancing with her; I’m ignoring her; I’m fucking her.

I’m fucking her, for all the world to see. If we were primates, if we were savages, I’d haul her up onto the biggest rock I could find, and have just right there like there, so everybody could see, could hear the sounds she’d make. 

I’m dancing with her; I’m lying to her; I’m deceiving her heart.
I’m deceiving her, but it’s not hard.

She likes to be lied to; she’s the sort of slut open-minded-girl who’d lie down with anybody. 

She kisses like a boxer. She gets all up in my face, and she does some damage while she’s there. She takes her five pounds of flesh, and then retreats back to her corner. 

I’m dancing with her, I’m enjoying her, I’m in love with her.
Or maybe I’m all alone in the room.
It’s hard to tell sometimes, with her. And me.  

I’ve no God. No heaven. Only her.

I’ve no Devil, no hell in which my eternal soul shall burn.

I’ve only her.

I’ve got no science-fiction, no flying cars, no jetpacks, no cloned armies of warrior poets, no mutant warriors fighting to be free.

I’ve got no old mythic heroes, no stars in the sky, no sunlight to fall upon me when I awaken. I’ve got no dreams, and nowhere to lay down to die.

Just her. Just her. Just her.

I’ve got no afterlife ahead of me. I’ve got no past behind me. No blood in my veins, no thoughts in my head.

No Gods. No rules. No reason.

I’ve only her. 

I need a girl. Just for a minute or two.

I need a muse. I need a little angel to wipe my cock off on. I need to be inspired, and to be left alone to do something with that inspiration. 

“This is the worst place on earth,” he tells her, his hand reaching uncomfortably for the cock that swings loosely under her thousand-dollar latex skirt. “You’ll die here.”

“Stay long enough in the best place in the world darling,” she tells him, “and you’ll die there, too.”

I need a woman, a face, a body, a place to happen, a victim. I need a heart that functions as a hotel room, somewhere I can pay to spend a bit of time, chopping up victims and masturbating to cheap, ugly pornography.

Yeah, chopping up bodies, and editing memories. Slicing up eyeballs. 
Don’t you get it yet?
I want you to know.
Slicing up eyeballs. I want you to you know.

I want a girl who’s so groovy. I don’t know about you. But I want you to know. I want a girl who’s so groovy.
And I want to
Debase her. 

Yeah, I know you can take it, I can tell by the look in your eyes. You expose yourself in ways that ask me to reveal more. You lay prone so that I can see how to hold you down.

You lick your lips like you’re showing me a doorway. You touch your body like its a long, slow trip to some strange and foreign land; I won’t speak the language, but they’ll accept my currency. 

You’re so full of secrets, and yet all you talk about are your obvious bits. The want that trickles down from your lips. The way the harsh light of day reflects off that dull glazed-over look you cultivate.

Yeah, you’re glazed over. Like a donut, with a heavy shell of sugar, or a small-breasted asian girl doing group bukkake scenes. You’re glazed, battered, fried and served. I can taste your mistakes from across the room.

You smile like a fleshless skull, like a grim spectre of death that’s come over to get laid in the middle of the day. You put your hands on me like you’re putting out a fire.

“Drag the truth out of me,” I suggested, as she fastened the chains around my ankles. 

She wants to ignite me, excite me, to burn me alive. She wants to turn my death sequence into erotica; she wants to remember me just like this. 
Mouthful of broken glass.
Fingers tied into knots.

She slips into my bed like a knife swimming in between my ribs. Just like the tip of the blade, she reaches for my heart; she wants it, wants to devour it. Yeah, I can just about see my heart dripping from her lips.

She consumes my heart like its menstruation meeting cunninlingus. She puts it up to her mouth, and uses her tongue, and gets the blood all over her face.

The truth is, I can handle being eaten alive, and I can deal with being ignored. But what’s really weird to get through, is all the ideas of the things we didn’t do, rattling around in my head like bullets that’ll never find their target. 

The truth is something I can’t give her, unlike satisfaction. 

I loved her like a gun, which is to say, as long as she was loaded.

She was edgy, double-edgy, like a switchblade smile. Yeah, she’d flash that deadly little grin around, and leave me bleeding from the throat. 

“Are you enjoying my self?” she asks me, looking up from the pornographic death-scene I’m writing her into. She loves the way I love her body, the way I love her for her form. 

“Do you love the ocean because it’s full of water, or because it’s not the land?”

She gives me this look like I’m drowning. Like she’s watching my mouth and lungs fill up with water, like she’s watching me sink below the waves,
Even as I stand above her. 

Contradict me. Lie to me. Abuse my trust. 

Take a bunch of words I said, and twist them into startling new paragraphs lined with birdshit and prison bars. Wrap my words in barbed wire and shove them down my fucking throat.

Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d like to see me gag on all those clever things I was saying so subtly. 

She was the girl with the ice cream heart; I devoured it, as it melted down my face and onto the ground. I looked like a beautiful bukkake bitch by the time I was done. Yeah, she was dripping down me, all creamy and runny and tasting faintly of chocolate and marshmallow. 

She’s tattooed her scars on me, so I look like an accident victim. She was no accident though. She was right on, right on purpose. She was right on time. She was right on the right mark for getting off, and getting off hard. 

Yeah, she got off like she was jumping from a train.
She came hard, and hit the gravel running.