pounding on glass to break out to break in to beat her to beat him to beat them into a bloody mess of jealousy and rage and glass and skin. this is what she says to me, this is what makes me smile. we sit back and breathe, trying to control the situation. my brother says to me, you’ve been out in the rain too long and it’s getting to you, these grey skies are getting to you, you need to get of london, what about rome? i’ve roamed enough, i say, and take her hand and we walk off into torrents and downpours, into mass hysterical moments of naked aggression and sex in parks. this is what i am, she says to me. i reply, this is what i’ve become

the heckler, all the time, he screams at me, how are you doing that boy, how could you possibly think you could that? you ain’t superman, you aint even captain canuck, you’re captain fuck-all.
and of course i try to drown him in scotch and mourning and racing the car through tight cobblestone streets.
it only cheers him up.
hey captain fuck-all, this is some wild ride in the back seat here. it’s like a roller coaster, but without the rails, or the belt, or any common sense whatsoever.
i pitch the junk of metal that is my car right off a cliff. how about that for a ride?
hey, what is that your problem captain fuck-all? what is your motherfucking deal?

a dreaming of this at all sides, all angles, panorama surreality, bee bumbling about into the nexus of desire and longing and restraint, all passion an empty sleeve where moths gather up and burn through, scattered bulbs of gasoline and church pews, fluttering into the parched mouths of priests whispering your confessional and we all knock back tumblers, slamming our fists out of our chairs into listening for your cunt and all it begs of you

two things do not make another. he asks me, being kirk to his spock, have you ever thought that maybe it’s chemical? like try taking sami-e. and i think, no i’m not crazy, this isn’t mental. it’s behavioral. it’s when i stop doing that the rabbit hole looms and devours. the minute i rest properly and enter the small death of sleep only to resurrect back into my daughter prying open my eyes. then i return. two things to not make another. two things simply make two things more than what you had before.

it is not my fault i remember things, i cannot help it. i cannot stop. the way he played with the hairs just under his nostrils, whiffing at them, as if he was remembering something, like the scent of her. just the glimmer of it, on the edge of haughty and musk. she with her feet propped up across his legs, lotion in his hand, toes splayed back. she said, get busy with my clit and i was astounded. the way his son looks at him as if to say with one fragile eyebrow raised and a shy tilt of his head, i will be more of a man than you. i cannot stop it, it slides in and out of view, like the way i can tell the difference between holding someone and being held, the reluctance and recalcitrance, the wanting and the loss. he says to me, that stupid bitch has filled the house up with everything and i take the cigarette he offers and smoke it viciously, for this too will remain.

there are things i need to remember and things i am desperately trying to forget. will you forget for me? and i laughed spindles of unrepentant joy and malice and everything cruel in the world turned its attention to me as if i was the spit and the charcoal and the skewer and the lamb. let’s have a roast, i said, let’s burn everything. let’s make a big pile of ash.

What is the script for this for saying and doing and believing and tasting and touching the insides of her thighs my cock in her mouth her hands bound together above her and her tits bunched up and out and legs splayed the urge to push her further and her panties twisted up into my fist tugging not to hurt her exactly but for her to cum exactly and while i don’t quite understand the machine i’ve become i understand how having her like this pleases me as long as she is pleased in return