I drain my eyes blue, to sift spiralling anticlockwise down the drain. And I become one with the most important (least irrelevant) vomit, piss and shit of the past three decades, longing to catch in the pipes like the fatty streaks of two-year-old orphans thinking they'll never die like their fathers. It's the helplessness that is worst, worse than the brutality of car crash pulped faces and blood effaced by engine oil on the bitumen, Sylvie's concatenations and my tongue pierced through to remember all the acid truths, immaculate, and how they were all so useless. So stake him through the chest like a vampire, molesting the alabaster queen as her .17 fails to run enough proof for the jury who will tell her she wanted it. Some demon from '51 I only knew second-hand will live out his last conviction again. Nine friends for six children. Slit the throat right through this time. What dries first on a decapitated head, blood or semen? I turn away, I cannot look. So there is no need for alibis, no eye-witness accounts. The stretch marks and C-section scars are still beautiful. 1 in 5000, but not rare enough for your filthy little heart to burst open in my monosyllabic company. Smear your view, salty sebum on your sunglasses, and kiss me in the dull clipped distortion of inebriation, sharpened once again as I'm walking home and before the soft soporific crackle of pylon wires, someone has been stabbed. Twenty spectators, but none will be affiliated with the blue lights and sirens. I will not broadcast my failures even to support the one who cannot bring nectar to me in the duplicity of arousal through SSRI-induced anorgasmia. This all began at the age of fourteen, some ignorant punks can ruin lives with the deceit their insecurities birth. Chronic indiscretion and the purulence of being overly candid. People just don't want to know why you do this. "Stop, you're smearing guilt in blood over the holocaust profits I'm dancing in." The stripped-down Blondies won't care either way. Eleven inches of paraplegic potency still mars her hair, the fruits of the labour of half her wages. "Cocaine continues to decrease in purity, well below two percent. And Barry M has just released Genie. I'll take it, though I need more bitch rose red. Next month I'll shave it off and be smooth all over, like a little crawling slug worm with no teeth. Break me then, motherfucker, I wear the six-inch heel boots and am indestructible." Stigmata, a gun in my hands and a hole in her head. Surprising, the sheer volume of brains in that skull, but it's wrong to call her wasted potential. I irregularly fuck a woman some weekends when we can both find the time and energy for relationship maintenance. I like to look her in the eyes though she would prefer to look away. No purchase for the elbows on linen bed sheets, I fall towards her and we kiss. Pestilence. Imagine pulling the entire reflected glimmer of the oceans off in one swift moment, a sheet I could pose on for my psychedelic photo shoot where everything is beautiful and remains so after the incomplete comedown. I left some things on the other side. Eat fat to burn fat? I would rather just commit it to memory. Make the Nightmare Tim Burton girl with scene hair anonymous. What use is it to worry about one exploitative life? All the money pouring into an inaccessible account after she dies? Pour cyanide into her mail order makeup. When corpses sallow and stop looking pretty they're not so much to aspire to. Some people are cartoons. Satire, caricature. Fifty grand or more each day spent just on protecting the president's life, even past its expectancy. And some families received not ten percent of that for entire lives lost by fault of the system. And decades behind bars? Less than 1% of that for at least one man in recent history. But you can sell a kidney for a third of a million, apparently. Sex trafficking? Hijack aeroplanes in a protest against the valuing of God-made bodies, not religion. Whoring out my veins for dirty money. The big thirty, drinking to remember the bigger thirteen. Dressed like sluts on Halloween, the misconception of playing hard-to-get, I want your snakebites in my mouth. Forgo conversation, and let's entwine on the bed in the afternoon, just staring. Anchored. Where your body goes, mine must too, or so I wished it to be as I stood face to face with lipid white emulsion, congealed and coagulated. All I wanted was to know which way you make the water turn. I come to, in a different town. Blackouts again? And all this vomit in red all over me. The disgusting pabulum in the simplicity and lack of any modicum of creativity in it all. Lonely men sit in a bar nursing more than they would like to drink in one go for the sake of masculinity that no one cares to pay attention to here. At first blush it all seems contrived. The heart beating against itself. The big sixty-five, last August ending. You no longer sleep with a knife underneath your pillow, just a baseball bat at your bedside. Bludgeon the face in. Cross the eyes over the concave nose and mangled jaw. But you can't kill him. The gang rapist's future crimes will be far more frequent and traumatising. How can I sleep with you knowing what you have fantasised about? Paraphilia with paramours. Paranoid, humanoid, failure disassembly by deicide. Stabbed in the throat with a lightning bolt. Here, here are the missing pieces from your bipolarity. Bequeath to me your PTSD. Sound the aorta, make me your fucking gauge queen. I will dance under a different moon, one where the Earth casts a straight line shadow right through. Pick me up again, it was always this way, carcasses strung up by the foot, then slit at the base with you on top. Leave me quivering inside you for the next man in degrading failure, spilling blood portents. Raised by wolves and torn apart by vultures. Rip the skin that comes away in clean sheets, chainsaw through the sternum and leave the halves in suspended animation. Expose the marrow of my bones to recoil at the touch of cold air, and tongues covered in vomit from eating too much gold. Unwanted, never good enough. Failure, failure again. Failure at the behest, though it demonstrated my staying potential. Inertia sits heavier in such situations, the curiosity of once-in-a-lifetime opportunities to squander down. Gullible, gullible fools. Now you die. Now we all die. Faceless, Jane Does, androgynous as the clouds. Vaporised. Nowhere for liquids to run. Nothing to run but seventeen, proofless as priorities realised too late. Haemophiliacs bleeding under the fingernails, crawling all the way down the bend, lifting the lids and bludgeoning their victims in that same bathroom cubicle. Destroy everything and charge the world to watch. Profit and then rebuild. I don't want to be skin anymore. There weren't enough holes in her body even after they put lighters to her nipples and tore like at the edges of wet paper. So they brought drill pieces. So pre-emptive. Edge-play with knives and potty training. The infantilised man dies if he cums, suffocated by his mistress' shit, lungs punctured, profusely bleeding. I understand, escorts are too vanilla. An extra fifty for a-level? I've blanketed myself, blinkered in gridlock. Piano wire for my throat. Hit the lever with hands superglued to my head. What a magician performs is rarely so true. Manifest decapitation, the arteries spurting in drabs. Conspicuous, clear-cut, champaign country weary waste. Artless as delicate jailbait, tentatively tiptoeing the spinster. Shattered limbs dragging in the sand, die, die, die. Purity was unachievable, classic androgyny, so skinny she could walk in the snow. Lorren vs. Melissa, Bear vs. Shark and old Fugazi would have had a lot to say for the secrets I keep from my beloved and everyone. And permanently I sit, well past midnight, imagining a-level again in the backseat, pasty white skin in the moonlight and the head, tilted way back to display the jawbone, and that little thing her neck does. All these girls with the short black hair, parted, straightened over to one side. I would fuck them all in public disgrace. Just not like this, not like this. Clothe me in something I can launder, not the guilt and insecurity from all those cheating condoms handed to me to fill, stretched over my face, my head, my extremities. Complacency, or total disregard to apathy? "I just don't care anymore." I tell myself, but the truth is far more complicated. Is it always like this? Is it always like this? Is it always like this? Like it always is? The disposal of pregnancy remains. Lock the safe leaving the key inside.