Sunday, March 28, 2010

Unfinished - potentially forever.

There’s always a tipping point. In the bright, familiar light of day you don’t always see it – but then, looking back amongst the wreckage of a situation you think, ‘ah yes, that’s where it all went wrong.’ That’s never been my problem. My problem is that I see the road dead-ending up ahead, and then careen recklessly towards it hoping for the worst. I crave disaster and anarchy in my life. My life is like a wound in my mouth, one that would heal if you stopped tonguing it – only I cant. In retrospect I suppose the moment where it all started to get a little out of hand was the night we drove out to the cliffs. It was dark, grey and inky and the night was cold enough that we should have been wearing jackets. Our windows were rolled down and we suckled frantically at cigarettes to keep our lungs warm if nothing else, and conversation turned bleak. He brought up the apocalypse and I tried to turn the conversation to anarchic collectives. Most of what we talked about isn’t important; most of it isn’t something I remember. But in a quiet, timid voice he mentioned something that shuddered me. And like Pandora’s box it all came tumbling out. The thing about making someone your confidante is that you put their life in your hands. He shouldn’t have chosen me, my hands were shaky at best, and it was only a matter of time until something would drop.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010


“I’m desperate for flesh. My teeth haven’t bitten down on skin, sweet muscle, flesh and bone, for weeks. Or minutes. Maybe centuries. Time means little to me at this point, seconds and instances seem to crawl past and yet centuries take less than moments to pass by me. I live sporadically you could say, what is up is down, right is wrong and love is hate. That last part is important. Or not. In my life nothing is constant – only the need to bite. Relationships, fashions and countries are all fleeting – transient at best, and I exist above them. In my conceit I am the closest thing to a god that any human will ever experience. Not immortal, but unmortal. The humans cannot seem to get even the simplest things right anymore, their words for my kind are not the only travesty they take as fact. I am lucky for that, the myths are so far down the wrong path that they could never recognize me as one of them. I am an unlikely candidate for a god I suppose, in their eyes. I am nothing sparkling or bright or beautiful. What I am is ordinary. Ordinary and invisible, I am the embodied equivalent of wallpaper. You thought my ordinary, didn’t you? Now you know better my Madonna. Normally you see me and then instantly forget me. But I never forget you. Although memory is not the word for it either. A catalogue of meals, faces jumbled into a single vernacular: you are my food.

Which brings me back to the hunger. The all consuming, maddening, dry scratching hunger that screams and pounds through my headlikeaviceeveryminuteofthedayscreamingscreamingforwethotsilkyredblood.

But I forget myself and grow excited, how unseemly.

May I take a minute?

The blood, yes. I crave it. Not just the blood itself but the wrenched screams, the flesh, rend from their bodies, soft and supple in my mouth as I chew it into meat. The bones too, I crack and feast on. I devour every part of the carcass, carnivorous and lusting for the flesh as I am. I eat their souls. I savour the thickening screams, gurgling through bloodied throats, and I relish their struggles to the end. The wild battle for life is the sweetest part and I can replay it over in my head again and again, like a warm blanket in the cold of forever.

Let no one tell you that forever is not cold. Forever is not a lover that will keep you warm and embrace you through the night, no, no. Forever will rip you to shreds, take everything from you day by day. But I would have forever over living. I remember living. Living every day was a blur of pain: hurting and emotions, feelings that ran rampant through your body, tearing you from the inside. Now I feel nothing. Except the hunger. I always feel the hunger. It is a monster that wears my body, and my life is centred on sating the beast beneath my skin.

I have developed affections to sate the hunger – a sick sort of puppetry, facade of humanity. I wear shirts that hide my over pronounced spine and emaciated frame. I blink, and shuffle and fidget like the humans – I have learned they find the still of death unsettling. And I have learned the languages of modern society, though they feel foreign on my tongue. But it is all a device so that I can eat. A deadly predator that will do anything to eat.

Nothing could describe the sweet, sultry flavour on your tongue of marrow and cracking bone grinding against your teeth. But I tease you. Your sweat is intoxicating, it smells like sick fear and certainty – you know what is coming then? Unfortunately for you, whores don’t get second chances. And you are a whore my Madonna, yes? But I will save you. You will most likely not care for it, but I will rend you limb from limb and devour you, and in the end it will be a gift to you. Because living is pain, and no matter what I am about to do to you, it couldn’t hurt as much as living. Although I will certainly give it my best shot.”

A sickening crunch, a muffled scream and horrid sound of a wild animal feasting, and it is over.

Monday, January 4, 2010

A sweet little something, to ring in the new year

I want to be the gilded bird inside your cage. The sweet, little golden bird that sings on command and whispers secrets in your ear when you pull down the sheets and put me on my back. I want you to ruffle my respectable, middle-class feathers that think they're made of something special and put your dirt all over me. And then when you're finished playing with me, I want you to put me away again so I can sleep until you're ready for the next song to start.

Or if not the song bird, then the spaniel. the adoring little cocker spaniel who gets tangled in your feet as you walk me about on a leash here and there. The one you sometimes feel a pressing urge to kick out of the way because it's so needy. The little spaniel dog who only wants your love, whose singular life goal is to attract and hold your attention so that I can feel some of the love you seem to lavish so freely over every other aspect of your life. Little spaniel running around mindlessly for her master.

If you don't want a lapdog then I could be your silk. The silk that you don't want to dirty with your callous hands, the ones you describe as filthy, bad and wrong. The bad old man with the filthy hands and the silk coat. The silk coat you'd never wear out in public for fear of public mockery, but that you stroke your hands over when you lock yourself in your home, burying your face in the folds of me. A cherry red silk coat that is the one bright spot in this dark and dirty existence you've carved for yourself.

Most of all though, I want to be your flower. You could put me in a little glass dome to protect me from the hard and scary creatures of our tiny world and then admire me from without. One should never listen to the flowers. One should simply look at them and breathe their fragrance. You could admire me and breath me in for fourty-four sunseats, until one of the fragile volcanos tore our tiny world apart. Or I could be your star that you lived on, and in all the world there would be only one of me.

Or like we said, I could play the red riding hood to your wolf. And when I strayed off of the path of needles and pins, like you knew that I would - you would be there to watch me from the bushes. The comparitively innocent flower that had miles to go before she slept and many more tricks to learn from her wolf. And when I finally found my way again you would seduce me off of my path again, and eat me. Out.

And then I would draw you a snake that had eaten an elephant, and you might tell me that you wanted a picture of a small sheep instead. And we could smile at the impossibility of it all - knowing no one else was privy to our world, that no one else understood that we were doing things of consequence.