Between the sheets with nature and soft machines. Contemporary horrors and the flavour of existence picking away at you somewhere between your shoulder blades. Belly-dancing on the streets as you skip from bar to bar. Trash and flowing alcohol all around, we move without sound to where the night keeps on growing. Black stockings. Videotapes and cocaine blues. Lube to keep us moving freely, we do what we want without having to ask. We take what we need to keep us high above the desolate buildings we detest so much. Raw experience in the reality of others now buried deep in memory. It’s not love, it never is. Blinking eyes and pretty faces just wont do, it’s in the bitemarks on my chest, and the bruises on your inner thighs. Technological animals. Flesh dies, but ghosts in the machine will haunt for as long as you allow them to. Perception between your legs. Reflections of internal organs in the way you arch your back to the ceiling. Kissed by neon light with fractions of guilt upon your toes, that innocent smile can’t hide the lust in your eyes. You need it just as much as I do. The savagery of consumption. The strength of absurdity as our bodies prepare for something new. The next stage. The opening we crave for most of all. Deep inside our chests, it throbs and tingles to the base of our spines. Vaginal teeth. Electrodes all along the shaft of my cock. This is the feeling you give me. The imagery in the smoke from your cigarette, it sends me wild with so little effort. Death to seduce. Death to ease our passage to another way of thinking. In your gaze, it keeps me up to the magic hour. It takes me down. A spiral staircase from your breasts to your knees. Wooden splinters in my tongue that never leave. Insane suggestions as you kneel at the edge of the bed ready for a little foreplay, this is exactly what we fear the most, yet why do we keep on doing what takes us to the point of no return. Why do we peel it all back knowing they’ll be nothing there to see. The answers can be found behind closed eyes. They can be tasted beneath your tongue. Slithers of plastic in the palm of your hand, you wash them down with champagne as the room spins like the maelstrom inside my skull.