We all came here for the same things. We fumble down laminated menus that’re splotchy with sexual fluids. Cum drips, and leaves streaks. The waitress leans in and tells us she’s wet like she really wants us to know about the weather outside.

We came here because we were hungry. Thirsty. Because we had needs we were looking to have filled. Yeah, warm empty slots of want that we needed stuffed full of knowledge and sweet sticky honey.

She goes down on me like I’m the last cigarette in the package. She savours my taste and exhales me around the room. She chokes and coughs, demurely, like a lady. Like a lady who lives on her knees.

I went out looking for something. I wanted to strike sparks. I wanted to drown in my own deliciousness, my own terrible ideas. 

The couple next door make love like spiders. They’re hideous little monsters full of poison and lackadaisical drives. They spend most of their days hiding in the dark, licking and petting at each other.

I just wanted to find myself. To free myself.
To go fuck myself.

Yeah, you could do all sorts of entertaining things. You could light fires and stop traffic with a blink of your eyes and a shake of your hips. You could order drinks just by flashing your nipples at the bar. 

You’re my kind of girl, which is funny, because scientifically speaking they should’ve all gone extinct years ago. Too self-destructive. Sort of stupid, in an alarmingly sexy way. Noise goes in, music comes out. You’ve got a special sort of mind.

Me, I’m thirsty for Blood Flavoured Kool Aid and pepper-lime chicken wings. You know, messy, inconvenient stuff. You could understand that. You seem like it.

I see her standing there. She’s perfect, like a goddess, or maybe I just think she’s got really nice tits. That’s close enough, isn’t it? Close enough to perfection?

I can’t get close enough to her. My hands are on her, my mind is on her, my teeth are getting into her. Even when she’s full of me, I’m not close enough. I think I could consume her, like a great ghost ship disappearing into the mist.

I miss her when she’s not around. I miss her more when she doesn’t exist, which is all too often. She changes colours like chameleon mood-rings. Her ethnicity is set to “variable”. She blinks and her eyes are blue, black, red, yellow, green… She blinks, and seems to glow in the darkness.

Humming now. She hums a song in my ear. She mumbles a sweet phrase. She’s so fucking gorgeous, I don’t care what she says. I just want to see her, lying, languid. I just want to touch her. Hell, I want to own her. I want to make her mine. I want to crush her spirit under my foot, and I want her to look up and say Thank You as I do it.

I treat her like a porn star. Like a stripper. Like a bought-and-paid-for girlfriend. I put her on her knees so she can look up at me. I tie her to the bed so she can get some sleep.

Eventually, maybe, we’ll fall in love.

Get your halloween masks on: we’re going hunting.

I’ve taped over my eyeholes so they’ll never see me coming. I’ve filed the safeties off our handguns so they’ll go off like fireworks at a moment’s notice.

This moment is your only notice: Let’s go! 

I’m masquerading as a Catholic School Girl today. You think I don’t notice you trying to look up my skirt, but what’d you think I put it on for? I’m daring you put your eyes on the thin cotton of my underpants. Maybe I’m something you can imagine. Maybe I’m something more.

More or less.

Pull on your mask and socks: we’re going out hunting for hipsters and sluts tonight. We’re gonna get Laid Men like mobsters. We’re gonna go swimming in cement shoes, hanging with lobsters. We’re gonna spell things in ALLCAPS and forget each other’s names, just in case the police corner us for questions.

I got a girlfriend or two; she blows me like smoke rings and rings me like a bell when it’s time to eat. Pussy cats prowl past our window at night, hunting for rats and other nocturnal snacks. 

You think you’d forgotten me, but I’m still right behind you. I’m catching up fast and coming on strong. 
Not overly-familiar; just friendly.

She’s an atomic bomb.

Yeah, she blow me like an atomic bomb - she sends me up into the stratosphere, tripping on mushroom clouds as tall as the sky.

She kisses me long and hard, in reverse. It’s like she’s shoving my own saliva back onto my tongue. I taste myself in her mouth, and I taste scared. She smiles, and spits a bit of me out on the road, where I sizzle, like bacon. 

Look at her: cigarette on her lips.
Look at her: choking on smoke and smiling.
I swear, that girl could laugh through a faceful of just about anything.

She languid, laughing, lying night and day in my bed and over my phone. You know her ring-tone; she’s a telephonic siren, a saviour of the other side. She’s somebody who knows. She’s been there. She’s come back. She’s holding your hand. She’s slitting your throat.

Come on, don’t leave me alone. Sit with me. Tell me something. Let me talk over top of you until you submit to my story. Let my narrative lead you right up to the slaughterhouse so when you get to go down your knees, you’re comfortable looking up, and seeing me, and saying,

Thank you.

I’m holding my breath until the end of the world.
Do you know when that is?

Read me, rate me, rape me, review me.
Just don’t ignore me. Don’t leave me to fester and rot. Don’t leave me to plot my schemes, like revenge or a mystery novel.

She is overtly sexual. She tries to hide it, but she doesn’t try very hard. She likes me to be hard, which is to say, overly difficult. I mismanage my words, so she gets to misunderstand me. Little Miss Indelible Marker.

Yeah, the world is ending. Star by star flickers out. I’m out collecting smiles from porn-stars, trying to discover the taste of true love before we all go out, into the dark. I want to peel something open and devour it. Maybe something like you.

Somebody in the audience starts to quiver and twitch. A moan builds up like it’s had a lifetime to stew in there and now it just wants out.
Now you just want out.
Now you just want…

I don’t like to blog before I’ve started to smoke. I like to link all my addictions into one moment. If I could have you, curled beneath my desk, sitting at my feet, looking up at me from crotch-level, I’d have all my vexations and fixations in one place all at once.

And I’d probably get nothing done.

I like to know my audience is ready. I like to see them waiting with open eyes and mouths and hearts and minds. Open your heart and hear what I have to say. Open your mouth and catch my brilliance on the tip of your tongue, like you’re lapping up sunshine off the warm morning air.

Is there ever going to be an end to this? Will I ever have written enough? Will I eventually come to the end of all my spare room to write down little notes? 

“Help me; I am alive. Find me; I am here. Love me; we are all alone.”

These are unsent letters I just hand out to strangers on the street.
“If you see somebody I could love, please pass this along.“ 

Help I’m alive. I’m trapped in here. I’m tied to my heart like it’s an anchor. Help I’m alive and I can’t get out of here. Help I’m stuck in my head and now I’m stuck in your head too. You keep reading my words, and I can’t get out. You try to stop thinking about me, but I can’t get out.

She winds me up.

She’s a wind-up doll, and she always winds up worn out when she goes on and on like she is now.

She inserts a key into her little clockwork cunt and gives it a spin. All the little gears in her genitalia sparkle and spin, and try to come up with some new ideas as the crash and gnash together like angry teeth chewing rocks.

She dances exploitively, like she’s a warehouse of a whorehouse. Yeah, a big cavernous place you could wander through and get lost within. She’s got a heart as big as the outdoors, but don’t mistake her for a size queen; it’s the little things that matter to her. It’s the little things that master her.

I want to master her like a game I’m so good at I’m unable to die. I’d love it if she couldn’t kill me, couldn’t get through to me. I could have her all and still be free.

She’s a sure victory, I just don’t know which side she’s on. If the bed were bread she’d be the butter melting into the hotness. If we were sleeping on a chessboard she’d be somewhere between the squares of black and white, going naked and grey in the morning light.

She gets me going.

But I’ve got nowhere to be.

All this poetry is about 

fucking.

All her writing is about

fucking.

She’s a lonely girl, living on a computer that sits alone in a room. Maybe she’s not a girl. Maybe she’s not even an identity. Maybe she’s just a collection of typed-out phrases and desires. 

Yeah, she’s not a real person. She doesn’t want to wear real-people-clothes. She wants to pour sticky latex all over her tits. She wants to be cloaked in something gooey. She wants to feel goodness flowing like soft warm honey all over her form.

Me, I’m not ever in the same room with her. I’m just another loner writing love-notes from afar. She’s a masochist with a modem. I’m a sadist with high-speed solutions. 

I light the tip of my cigarette and push it up into her mouth. I burn the tip of her tongue. You can feel it. You can hear the sizzle as sparks settle against saliva. 

Breathe it in.
Breathe it out.

She chokes, smiles, and chokes a little more. 
Like she’s trying to show off or something.

I’ve got a bad idea, and I want to share it with you.

She was like a big long treasure-map, waiting to be discovered. She was like expensive jewellery which turns out to just be shiny trash when you get up close.

She’d sneak into my place to watch me sleep at night; my security cameras caught her as she squeezed her nudity in through my window, as she crept across the floor, keeping her belly low like a cat on the hunt.

I turn my back and she takes over my bed. She anexes my pillows, and lays claim to my blankets. She sweats into my sheets and she spreads herself out so she seems to cover every inch of the mattress. 

Me, I’m counting backwards from infinity, naming crimes she’s committed and probably will commit again. I’m daydreaming about dipping her down into the dungeon, where we keep the whips & chains, and the washer & drier. Boxes of old books and little metal clamps.

I know what I want from her, but I’m not sure how to handle her.

I don’t want to break her, but I do.

She breaks into my home and rearranges all of my books. She spells out dirty words with the first letters on the covers. She places strange authors next to each other like she’s hoping they’ll fuck.

Dirty little footprints on my carpeting. She pads around, naked like a wild animal that found itself indoors by accident. She spills my drink, and eats off my plate when I’m distracted. 

I think of her as a dragon; something rare and mythical that must be conquered to be ridden. Something that’d turn on you and devour you up in one big glorious bite.

She moves through the shower, using up all the hot water and dripping messily across the floor. She licks at my earlobes when I’m watching TV, and she scurries into my bed a moment before I can there myself. She lays in wait, naked and unassuming. 

I kiss her, slowly, like she’s an expensive whore I bought just for the evening. Like she’s the last glass of a very nice bottle of wine, and I want to taste every drop as it goes down.

She wants me to want her, in writing.

She wants me to touch her, with text.

She’s longing for me to blog about her, all over her. Yeah, a whole torent of words come streaming out of me, and it’s about her, her, her. Her lips and her hair and her breasts and her voice and the way I wish I could just lock her up inside my apartment and keep her like a little pet.

How long is forever? Is it a long time, or just until we get bored? How much is too much? How deep can she go, how long can she hold her breath, and will she still trust me, after?

She wants to get letters. She loves licking stamps. 

She sends me anonymous, unsigned notes. Dirty images that show off her tattoo and more private parts. She lets me see her scars, and the nakedness underneath them. Tattoos carved in with a pencil. 

All her stories turn into pornography and self-immolation after a while. I could tell you that it doesn’t turn me on, but I’d be lying. I could lie to her, but it just turns her on.

And on.

I was designed to be a living hall of mirrors. A psychic transmission that functioned as an echo. See me, seeing you? We look deeper and deeper until we start to dissolve. 

Tomorrow, we’ll all be warriors from the future. We’ll strap on our ipods and our weapons of electric-death, and we’ll set ourselves against the world like we’re setting it on fire.

Breathe with me.

She’s in love with the sound of my voice, but only when it’s barking orders like “Kill the infidels” and “Bomb the bitches”. She came for the revolution, but stayed for the sex. Or maybe it was the other way around.

Yeah, she likes the other ways around. She kisses boys and girls with similar abandon. She spreads her thighs for the hands and mouths of her choosing. She uses them up and leaves them spent on the floor. She uses up boys like they’re store-bought batteries. She goes through girls like disposable lighters.

I was designed to be a liar and thief. I was raised that way, in a simulated environment meant to replicate the end of the world. I grew up in a closet full of monsters. My bedroom was in the basement, where the bodies all were buried.

A hall of mirrors. A psychic assassin in the dark. A mental pathway of deceptions and illusions and just enough truth to choke on.

That’s where you’ll find me.
Waiting.

I once watched her put out a cigarette on the surface of her boyfriend’s eye. He screamed so hard they heard him six stories down, on the ground floor, despite the ball-gag that filled up his mouth like a key in a lock.

Now I’m watching her strip down, and get ready for the shower. She peels off the lycra and rubber like she’s a snake shedding snakeskin. At her feet, the discarded clothing looks like a pile of boneless corpses; they’re strewn like faded, fallen leaves, around her perfect little heels and toes.

We’re not lovers, so much as partners. Or maybe we’re just corresponding parts of a much larger machine. A system of human lives, crushing together with timeless need. A machine designed to turn food into shit and sex into babies. A giant earth-bound robot, with cities for blood. 

Cut the vein of a city, and see what comes out. Waste-products and secrets. Little lies and garbage that smells like organic rotting. Half-filled condoms emptying into chipped foam cups. 

Outside and up above, the sky is calling for rain, with deep throaty gasps of thunder that echo from here to the other side of eternity. The cries make like they’ll cross the ocean, filling up the bay and beyond. 

Me, I’ve got a thousand places to be, and my eyes on her. She’s a simple thing, in terms of operations and wants. 

And all I want is her.
Her, and some fun.

Just like a monster movie, just like a natural disaster, just like a plague:

I’m coming soon to a town near you.

This is my worldwide tour. This is how I weave an electronic web in which I wish to ensnare many beautiful perspectives, and guess what - you’re one of them. Now and forever. 

This the part of you I’ll always own. The part you keep giving me. It’s only a little bit, but I only need a little opening to slip in a lot of message. I’ve got content and context, you understand. I’ve got madness in my ear my like it’s a gift I need to give you since we haven’t seen each other in so long.

I’ve been up and away in my beautiful kingdom. I’ve been counting stars and giving them obnoxious names like KABOOMFUCKSUCKA! because who’s gonna stop me? You? You don’t even want to. We both know that, and if I could be entirely honest for just. A. Second? I’ve gotten kind of tired of your lies. I want you naked and honest and doing pushups on the floor.

I want to sculpt you into the perfect warrior for my imperfect war. I want to see good little soldiers all in a line, all ready to suck it for the team. All ready to stick it to The Man. All ready for ALL CAPS AND BIG IMPORTANT TALKING ABOUT BIG IMPORTANT TOPICS.

Like you, and me, and that other thing. That other thing we were going to take home with us from that trendy nightclub we were dancing at until the drugs made our limbs all blurry and numb.

You gotta understand, my career goal is KING MOB. I want to be a sexy anarchist who lives outside the law and lives off the funds he makes off his clever writing. That’s my goal. It’s revolution or bust. It’s a whole new world, or it’s nothing at all, and I’m not really a nihilist. I’m more of a spitfire. 

And this is me. Spitting fire into you.