Our love is a porno. It speeds like white horses and cocaine through the veins of those dying junkies we step over on our way to bars that never seem to close. Y’know, the ones that stink of beer and stale piss and the sweat of bodies aching for release yet of which are never occupied. In the mirror in the restroom, I gaze at myself while swaying on my feet from too many shots not to mention the heat of a hundred suns that do their best to do me in whenever I’m not looking. I’m a marked man- not only by nature but by God as well. They tell me it’s paranoia. But it’s fate, I know it is. From time to time there’s tenderness, but frustration is in my blood, just the same as melancholy and pain. Those hips. Those bones. When you make a move after we wake late afternoon, you tug and kiss and bite, but I’m limp and forlorn because my days are numbered and the only thing that takes my mind off it is the numbing beauty of the bottle. You know what’s wrong, so you put on The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, and at the right moment, the bit where he puts the girl on the hook, you make me wrap my arm around your throat until you can barely breathe. As I slip right in and take you, the hours melt as do the minutes and seconds along with the hairs on the back of your neck. It’s a dangerous thrill, but the best thrills often are. Delirious, you prise away the thumb of my right hand and chew, but no matter how much it ignites me, it’s never enough.