There’s electricity in the way we touch. Not the kind they write about in poems. Y’know, that awful romantic shit involving passion and desire and all kinds of gushy horror. No, the electricity we share is perverse and brutal. Like the stuff that fries small children who wander onto train tracks in search of adventure, or the shit that electrocutes racoons and drunkards that climb power masts in an attempt to be closer to God leaving their gnarly remains to rot twenty feet up in the summer sun. It burns the pages of books written by those writers who write only in need of their dreary thirst for acknowledgement and fame. The fame I require is not in the masses, but in wanting you to know that the rage in my heart is for real. That these words I piss out are not intended to impress, they’re meant as a substitute for my lips. They’re designed to fuck you even though my physical self is so far away. They’re for you and you alone. All of this is one way or the other. In dreams, as in writing, I am by your side clawing at you in desperate need of attention. The urges that never let me rest, they can be subdued and numbed by alcohol, but that gives only a temporary reprieve. No, the only cure for what afflicts me is you, and the only way I can have you is by peeling back this mess of skin and showing you what I am underneath. The uneducated would be horrified, they would reel back in disgust and call what we do abhorrent, but that’s why they’re uneducated. For the likes of us who have no home and who will never be at ease, to see that which resides within is the only thing that matters. To taste the dark energy that others do their utmost to keep hidden, this is what pushes us to the edge. And the edge is where you take me. It’s the only place I ever feel alive.