Ash In The Breeze
Outside, as the sun starts to set over the sea, I hear a crow call out three times, signifying something important that’s happening just out of sight. You know, like super-cool. “Out of sight, baby.”
I’m coming to you naked like the truth should be. My pants on fire and my shirts are worn down to skeletal stitching. Thin cross-work lines of thread making me look like I’m covered in hairsbreadth scars.
Yeah, I’m scarred. Scarred and scared. I’m not afraid to admit that, though. I don’t think you can damage me. Even with your hand so deep within my heart.
Outside, there’s movie stars wasting time on my park bench, waiting for their scenes to start. Pert little girls as pretty as movie stars, smoking cigarettes like a Freudian wet-dream. Tall taut men with exactly three millimeters of facial-stubble and photogenic genitalia. I pay them no mind, and lend them nothing of matter.
You couldn’t even afford one of my smiles, if it were presented to you as some sort of an offer. A bit of me in trade for a bite of you? Would you be amenable to a deal like that? Could you consider me in trade for you, for just a moment or two?
She thinks me over like a cigarette burning up.
Hot on the lips and ash in the breeze.
Had Her Where She Wanted Me
She was such an onion eyed girl.
She smiled at me, through all those tears. She smiled sunshine at me, while the rain pounded on the window like it resented not being invited in.
She whispered songs in my ears when my ipod went dead. She told me the plots of new movies when we couldn’t figure out how to download them illegally.
She cried like it was her last birthday, like she’d just fallen in love, or been hurt for the first time.
Cry Baby Cry
“Make your mama sigh,” I mutter to myself, steering my jet-pack across the city.
Deep in the dusty subways of the city, the last of the royal family is slithering, laying eggs the size of human-head that hatch into scaly flesh-eating monstrosities with hides as dark as black magic, and hearts as ugly as sin.
My aim is sure and my blade is sharp and my jet-pack is very fast. I am scared, but this fear drives me, drives me on, drives me on into darkness.
The Queen’s got claws that can carve through cement like it was soft butter. The Queen’s hungry for human hearts and the fingers of babies. The Queen breathes cruelty and soft curses, muting the air around her and depriving it of oxygen. Yeah, it’s hard to breathe around her. Her great, bulbous eyes can see through time and space and city walls.
She knows I’m coming.
But my aim is sure, and my blade is sharp, and my jet-pack is very fast.
I meet her in the darkness, of the abandoned city’s abandoned subway system. She screamed for vengeance in a language spoken only by the great extinct lizard who used to rule this land. She screamed for my life. She screamed that she wanted to tear me into shreds. Her eggs trembled with anticipation, still-sleeping lizard-monster-babies dreaming of destruction.
She wants to kill me. She wants to devour me. She wants to destroy me.
But my aim is sure, and my blade is sharp. And my jet-pack is very fast.
She Tells Me All Sorts Of Things
She lies to me with her eyes, and with little pieces of her writing. She writes me little paths that lead right up to the edge of her imagination and then leave me stranded in the middle of her mind’s eyes, forever trapped in whatever role she’s chosen to perceive me in.
But I’m not her dog, I’m not even a god to her. I’m not even some eternal, amoral being that commands the lightning. I can barely even command her; I’m just lucky she loves being on her knees as much as she does.
I make it look intentional, I make it look like less a crime of passion, and more like something that had to be planned out ahead of time, more like something where some real meticulous thoughts were applied.
She gets down on the floor, and smiles up at me. It’s submission as a subtle threat. She’ll use me to use her, or she’ll break me in the process. She tells me it’ll be okay, and she tells me with her eyes, and with little pieces of writing.
She Isn’t Always Right
She sinks her fangs in, and we start to talk.
Outside the meteorite shower is pounding against the window; little chunks of rocks from outer space battering the glass, making it wiggle and quake like it’s readying to shatter.
She looks at me like she’s readying to shatter, like she’s all built out of fragile little bits that could all come apart with the just the right sort of push. “A strong wind could blow her away.”
I consider her, consider our options; I consider just stopping, getting out, moving on.
She flinches when I blink. She smiles when I flinch. We share something that doesn’t share well; a sandwich, or a limited supply of oxygen. Enough drugs for one and a half people, but not two.
She sinks her claws into my body, and we smile at each, and we go to work.
Along With Her, The Long Way
I was a highway driving spaceman. I exhaled smoke where others sucked down fresh air, and I saw sparks and shining things dancing, where others saw only mundane deaths and cold places to sit.
She reached into me, under my layers of clothing and metaphor, and she went in search of the real me.
Me, I’ve got skin like an insect’s armour. I’ve got skin that fits me like somebody else’s mask. I’ve got skin that melts in your mouth and grows hard in your hand. I’ve got skin the shade of something slippery and I’ve got those things you said still stuck in my head.
She’s layers of imagery placed upon me. She’s a bunch of audio tracks redubbed and played back atop each other. I could watch her, atop of herself, for hours. I’d love to see her pull herself down, back down to earth, back to bed.
I watch her. I make her watch
me, us, the whole thing that’s there to be watched.
Scared, Not Of You, But Of Everything That’s Not
Fire up a connection. Send some digital descriptions of desire down the line, send them to me, email them to whereI’m@rightnow. It’s network of knots, not knowings, of feeling you out in the dark.
You feel good in the dark. There’s lots of things I like about the dark. The sky takes on that tone, and turns the earth to cold. I could smile about it, and I do. I could get caught up in it, and I do.
You’ve got me all caught up in your communicating concealments, your little cloaks of conversation. I can’t see through you, but I don’t need to. I just want to look into you a little. You’re like one of those murder mysteries, and I just want to get a little of your blood, under my fingernails. I want to get a feel for what went wrong with you; or right, if that’s obvious as well.
Her radio makes a lot of noise, tuned into alternating frequencies of what sounds like auditory fornication. I try to embrace it, I try to embrace her, but she’s all little stabby fingertips, and a look that burns straight through me.
You Can’t Talk A Psycho Like A Normal Human Being
I’m an expression of pure masculine something.
I’m built out of steel cables and bolts of iron. I drip a stranger’s blood from my mouth. I’ve got a gun that aches to be shot, a sword that aches to penetrate and slash, a cock that aches to be marvelled at in all its grandeur.
I dress myself in the day like the poets of my age, I dress myself up like a teenager turned loose, and I wear the air around me like its a vacuum of nothing at all.
I’m in love with her nothing at all; I’m in love with the gap that exists in her, where nothing is. I want to be that nothingness within her. I want to be the lack of anything that’s all up inside of her.
I want to fuck her so bad, I feel like a surgeon, diving in nose-and-knife first, hunting out her appendix before it blow up in all our faces, like one of those plots or schemes that wasn’t very well considered before being put into operation.
“You can’t talk to me like I’m a normal human being.”
Everybody wants to be so goddamn special, like all fucking day long. I can’t handle that, myself. That’s why I’ve got all these secret identities I keep around for changing into. You think I can keep this up all the time? I really need to be alone with the curse for a spell of time, at least every day or so.
Treading Water In A River
I only had a moment, so I used both hands and took a lifetimes worth, all that I could maybe fit in my mouth, all I could eat, as much of you as I could consume.
She’s a monkey on mind, she’s a plague of pester and giggles. She’s a sickening dose of something strong that leaves me feeling all silly and backwards and sideways and other words that deal with multitudes of directions.
I’m moving in multitudes of directions, for sure. Or maybe I’m just treading water. Everything feels like a way I could go. I’m hungry for everything on the menu, but I’m too shy to talk to the waitress.
She holds me close to her, with her eyes.
Everywhere Is Not A Place I Go Alone
You’re my Super 8.
You’re my Polaroid.
You’re my image from the past, haunting me like a laugh that just won’t fade from the room.
You’re a little lick of possibility, leaning up into the sky like an ice cream cone. You melt, and you melt me, you melt me with that look, that look I can’t ever deny.
You Could Be Wrong Like Me
“You hardly know me - don’t try to tell me, that I’m wrong. That I’m wrong!”
- senseless things
The older I get, the easier it is to be in love with you. With everybody, really. Well, everybody who makes the cut. Everybody who I want to put my arms around. Everybody I want to make things happen with. I can just stare into your eyes, and feel inspired.
Of course, in order to live out that inspiration, I’m going to have to get rid of you. It’s funny how that works, isn’t it? I need to fall in love with you, and lose you, so I can write about the loss.
No, there’s better books than mine already written about loss. I want to write about love and darkness and a loaded gun. I want to write about you, and me, and something we could find, rather than lose. I want to lose my mind, myself, my innate sense of self, in you. I want to be forever lost.
Brought In, Broken Over
I saw my muse whoring herself out in a bad part of town, and it took me a few moments to remember how it really felt to be inspired again. She came up to me and licked out my mouth out like a stray dog, tasting like ashtrays and sweet dreams.
Fuck it, lets go out drinking and dancing, why not, right?
I’d like to wake up next to you, unable to remember what we’d done, and hurting all over. I’d like to forget everything I’ve said to you because it was all so personal and embarrassing and stupid and inane. Why the fuck do I talk to people at all? I just want to ask, I just want to say, I just want to be somebody other than who I am. But I’m fucking trapped. Trapped by all this shit I say. I think. I say and I think. Actually, I think I say a bit more than I think.
Wanting Some Of Your Wishes
Where am I going with this stupid plan of mine? How am I going to get you into my arms? How can I get you as close to me as I want you to be, without giving up any of my advantages?
I get tense, and everything stops being what it is. I have to remember how to fight, with a sort of peaceful benevolence that still includes the will to kill if the moment should demand such a response. Mostly I just want louder music and sweatier bodies. More to eat and more to run from. I want a reminder that wolves are still outside. I want a reason to stand on the edge of something.
I want to stand on your edge, and I want to tumble off of it. I want to fall for a while. I want to fall for something like I fell for you. I want to keep falling. Fuck it, I wanna push you to. I want to see you tumble, take a tumble with me. I want to see what obsession and lust looks like in your eyes, rather than just reflected in your skin whenever I’m around you.
I want to be somebody I can recognise. I want to reconnect to the source of fiction, I want to plug back into the network of mainframes. I want to stop wanting so much, I want to take my every want, my every sexual desire, and focus it into a weapon made of dead bones, and I want to fire it off like a bullet. All that want, striking you like a bullet.
More Than A Mouthful
Who the hell are all you people who keep following me? Where do you come from? What do you want?
You humble me. You engage me. You drive me on an’ on an’ on.
I’m very excited to get to do this thing with you. “These are very exciting days for us.” I’m looking forward to saying something that might get you to open up to me, or maybe just fall in something that looks like love from a distance off.
I’m seeing the world from a distance off, from out in space, in a null-time, in a phantom zone, a twilight space, a place that’s not really an anywhere at all. I’m with myself, in the little cave of HERE that I built out of drifting dreams and a need to be an outsider even amongst a tribe.
Lets do it. Lets be others. Lets be lovers of similar ideas. Lets hold hands and walking, bleeding, into the deep waters. Lets attract something powerful to our side. Lets go for a wild, dangerous ride. Lets do something naked together, somewhere personal and intimate. Lets experience something unique to each other.
The only things I need to see are the things I can see in your eyes.
She Makes Me Want *That Idea* So Bad
Goddamn it I think you’re cool. I think you’re incandescent, fucking invisible. And you don’t even know it. I really want you to like me, love me, and to be a part of my scene, my team, this little support network of mutant warriors that I’m putting together.
I can feel it taking form a bit more, day by day. Things keep falling into place, and making sense. I feel like I can confidently just move forward, move forward, into - this?
“|Reaching Out For The Sun|Don’t Care If I Burn My Hands Again|”
My only enemy is ignorance. My only weapon is communication.
We’re at war, and it’s going to be a long one. We might never make it home again. We might be battling out way into our graves. We might be living the best lives possible, and the best time possible. We might look back on ourselves like others look up at the stars.
We might be already unobtainable. But I got us, I got us so bad.
Don’t blink. We’re taking transformative photos. Just keep being yourself. Make some art. Write your way out of this thing. You’re so much more creative than me anyway. You know me, my obsession with Tank Girl, The Invisibles, and Twentieth Century Boys. Everything I do drips with sexy punk girls, apocalypses, and manic drugged visions of crazy dance parties. Molecules falling in love with each other. Tripping on rhythm and rhyme.
You make me feel like anything’s possible. Even when I’m doing nothing.
Or shit, maybe that is just the drugs.