Her tired painted face, aching with sexual prowess and sleaze. Some kind of wonder, leaving you choking on her remedy. It’s nauseating, and liberating. It makes you feel alive to know how many she’s slept with. To imagine how many hands and tongues have taken her to some higher plane. Obliterated all that she is in the name of lust and false love. You’re no better though, not really. No one is. We’re all as low as one another, all of us swimming in a sea of cheapness. She’s got hollow bones and a pen that will testify otherwise. She’ll plead her case and confess undying love that it was all done in the name of feeling. And maybe it was. It doesn’t matter now though, none of it does. All that’s left is to revel in how it makes you feel. The shame and pain. The layers of trust shattered like an eggshell. Never to be put together again, just like humpty dumpty. The fat fuck.
All those men, so eager to taste what she is. All those eyes, picking away every inch of her body. Taking off her clothes, and pushing her onto the bed. Devouring her like she wants them too. I’ve done it so many times over the years, but now it bores me. It leaves me feeling like some kind of passenger. An alien. I’m not from these parts, I belong somewhere else. Someplace far away from the rolling banality of empty hearts and scars. The parade of sexual entertainers, of lovers posing at every opportunity. The twisting of knives, and the forced smiles. Bright eyes on the outside, so pretty and cute. So lovely like love, but on the inside.. On the inside it’s a mechanical action. All part of a performance. Repeated like war. Whores on magazine covers, and the circular motion of plastic hip machines. All of this ghastly shit, blowing like the wind around her horrid little neck. That pale, bite-marked neck. Ready to be held, and ready to be kissed. But not by I, not anymore. I’ve become something far greater than a lover or a hater.
I’m a machine, a black hole always sucking the life out of bodies. Those bodies in the rain. The past, present and whatever. Places that no longer have any physical meaning, existing only in the confines of my nervous system. Riddled, with cancerous thoughts. Drowning in a state of trembling turmoil. No language able to convey the horrors, of all there is to endure. Don’t stop dragging the lake, not just yet.
Just keep peeling it all back. Like some kind of adulterer, or a mythical being. A bringer of flies, and inadequate lies. Floating like leaves. Drifting like water. Madness, seeping from the palms of my hands. Oh my terrible hands, so cruel and merciless. Inflicting and destroying, to balance out all that mental pain. All those ink-blots, symmetrical and flamboyant. Blinding and forever, flashing like the lights of a night club. The insects buzzing in a hive of nightmares. The madness in her spine, breaking as her lovers come out to play. And how they play, with fingers just itching to tickle the hollow heart of what she is.
Spinning like plates, and spiralling out of control (Like a car on the freeway, or a lunatic with a gun)
Stalking the halls of her prosthetic mind (Each and every footstep, one breath at a time)