Dripping Down Your Canvas
I come out crawling. Crawling on hands and knees, leaving great bloody smears on the ground behind myself, like my body is a paint-brush and my canvas is the world; my canvas is you, and the world.
Yeah, you. I see you there, with me dripping down you, still so fresh.
And you see me. You want to, right? That’s why you brought me, stripped me down, got al that baggage from off my shoulders…
You burned the blindfold off my face.
So I might see you through the smoke.
Thick ribbons of grey obscuring the colour of your skin, but not the texture.
I open my mouth to let you in, and you bring scissors with you, and cut out my tongue. You cut out my tongue and all my words just bleed out of me, bleed out from between my lips, and on down your body.
You’re the canvas, and the fire that destroys the canvas, all at once.
I always come crawling back.
If I can’t make you art,
I’ll make you mine.
Words She Doesn’t Use With Me
She wrote herself into my story, with bright hair and scarcely visible scars.
She came to me, not crawling, yet still somehow on hands and knees.
She lied to me, a mouthful of my blood just behind her teeth.
She opened me up, just by opening her mouth up wide against me; her lips against my belly, my belly falling open like a cupboard door. My heart opens for her like the damn thing was installed on a hinge, like she should be able to just walk into me and do what she likes. Move furniture. Write her name in smoke and violence against the walls of my body.
Do you know what I’d let the perfect girl do to me?
I’d let her write my biography with two knives and a broken typewriter. I’d let her hold me down in the shower. I’d let her have just the bits of me she wanted, and throw the rest to the birds outside. Big black crows with little hungry mouths.
There’s something about her, something sick and surreal.
She moves unnaturally, like over-animated snakes.
She was my favourite character of all the fictional beings I could’ve ever wanted to fuck.
And she made herself real.
Just for me.
Broken Little Doll Girl
I built my lover, my perfect robot girl, with parts I found in the alley.
She has striped socks, and mix-matched toes. Polka-dotted panties and skin the colour of burnt chocolate, in some places. Skin the colour of golden coins in others, skin the colours of sunshine and honey and carmel-coated coffee-beans.
She steals glances with stolen eyes; they’re blue and grey and filled with flecks of orange and purple and green.
She’s got hands that are two different sizes; longer fingers and wider palms. Scars along the edges of the wrist like a suicide girl who didn’t really know what she was doing. If any of us ever really know what we’re doing.
She’s got the big soft ass of a black girl, and the tidy little cunt of an asian. Her tongue is half-Philippine, half-Irish. Her culture is one-hundred-percent post-modern sex-doll, as meaningless and vast as the internet itself. She’s got a personality you could pick out from a horror movie, equal parts vacuous trash and killing rage. She’d love to fuck you or kill you or eat something about the same size as you.
A billion fallen and forgotten girls, chopped up into bite-sized bits, and reassembled into something I could take home and fall in love with.
She’s never seen the inside of a suburb. She knows only cages and leashes and the freedom of moonlight on a naked belly. A naked belly coated in scars, a naked belly that’s all the different colours and textures that flesh can be.
I make a little doll to love, out of broken parts.
And then we go out dancing,
Her broken parts and mine,
Hungry For A Lover
She cuts me up the centre, looking for something to eat. She spreads me open and lays into my innards with a fork and knife.
She takes me into her mouth, and I feel my knees go weak and my blood pump hard. She gets me all over her face; I drip from her lips.
She can’t take her eyes off me, not even when she’s had her fill. She’s like a wolf, like a feral beast that has to eat well past what its stomach can hold, because she doesn’t know where her meal might come from. She takes on more than enough of me to be sick off it.
But this isn’t me complaining, this is just me, running out into her. She’s putting into me with sharp metal and a ravenous sense of desperation. She’s chewing on my bones, she’s got my veins and arteries caught between her teeth.
Tied to a bed or table, like an offering.
She offers me up to herself, and she takes it all.
I take the release she offers, and just sorta go with it.
Everything goes black.
She licks up the inside of my throat, and spills my head across the floor.
She Becomes A Casualty Of Near-Realism
Stripping slowly, in photograph form, showing yourself off a handful of pixels at a time…
I wonder about you, and your lover, and the life you’re structuring to portray through your less-than-innocent images… The way you slowly hike your shirt up your belly like you want me to see your skin as an endlessly long road to wander…
You hide your nudity behind my opaque screen; I reach through the endless spectrum of singular forms of duality; flat length-and-width piled atop each other in an infinite field of depth. I reach through the endlessness, the darkness, the light and the depth, to see if I can find you with words.
My words bounce off your skin; my naked words on your naked flesh. You make me want to want you, even if I’m just doing it for fun or profit. You bend my want to your will like you’ve taken my cock in hand and you’re using it to pull me around corners.
You share something with me that makes me feel special and used at the same time.
You share yourself with me.
I share some sympathy back in your direction.
I wrote all those poems, hoping you, some girl I don’t know, some girl I’ve never met, some girl who lives so far away from me, living your own exciting life, feeling your own portions of a separate existence… I wrote all those poems in hopes that you’d send me a naked picture of yourself.
So when you did, it was a really redeeming feeling for me. It made it seem like I could make things happen with my mind, it made me feel like I’m sorta on the right path to getting what I want; things like you. Things like your nudity, your shape, your form, your honest, your offering of yourself, even just as a visual treat. A snack for my eyes and all those fabulous fantasies I can concoct.
I don’t care that you’re embarrassed or shy, or whatever subtle lies you need to tell yourself. I just care about the part of you that’s you. I just like seeing what you can be, I like seeing what you are, and what you want to be. I can catch glimpses of what you want to be when you show yourself to me.
All that writing, all that typing, just for a bit of flesh. Expose a nipple, stroke yourself between your legs. Bite your lip and look into the camera, suggesting of self-pleasure as you stare into the blankly all-seeing eye of the camera. Record yourself on video, coming in reverse, as want grows in a burst and then settles within your centre.
I use her like pornography and pay her in attention. She searches for the right word, and just sends more images, in the end.
She Was All Those Things, Once
I miss you, I’m mad at you, we were never right together.
You were a rainy day without an umbrella. You were a thousand red balloons released into the sky, a hail of crimson spots rising up towards the sun.
You were like crying in zero-gravity, tears floating up and out and away.
You were my hero, my villain, the character my cast didn’t have room to take on. You were the problem with my plot. You were the fly my ointment, you were the cock caught in my flight. You were all the fight in my cocks; the thrashing of angry animals bashing out their own brains on the walls of their cages.
And now, now we just stare at each like hungry hunters waiting for a kill.
I wait for you to bleed, so I might drink.
Her robot cunt is shaped like a computer’s mouse. Double-click for the main menu. Endless scrolling for the searching out of specific instances.
looks licks me over, not entirely built for user-friendly purposes. Her interface was built like a rapist writing bad pornography. Her eyes scream murder and wanton instincts; her eyes go -blank- with quiet charms and sociopathic killing grace.
She’s downloading me, she’s reformatting me, she’s moving me from one system to another like you might just switch internet-providers or warm soft holes.
She growls, or wimpers. It sounds like a fax going off under deep water. She sounds like something trying to burn very hot, in a very wet place.
Maybe I never should have treated her that way.
Maybe she should’ve said something before I got my hands on her.