I’ll try and speak and shout and scream above the sirens for you, dearest. Raise my faded energy loss voice and alcohol addled larynx above the soused spectators on the streets outside and down and dead. So, yes, you should be warned that there’s one stinking shitload of Friday night frenzied fucking and festivities going on, leaking obscenely into Saturday morning shagged senseless and spewing. Just so you know. Just so you get it and get what to expect. But I’m tired. I’m so terribly, terribly tired. If I had the purpose and the commitment and the nerve, this is how it would be. Could be. Should be. Listen. I want to hold you, spoil you, treat you. Treat you like a force of nature, like the animal you keep pleading with me to become. I yearn to drag your battery battered bruised carcass into the middle of the floor, knifing you from head to butt like a master butcher, splitting you bloodily and reaching in to scoop out your innards. You, you never stop, do you? Well, do you? Try as I might I can’t staunch the flow. I can’t stop you seeping through my fingers, sliding down into my hollow palms and dripping from my murderous hands. Hey, but this is art, so that’s okay. It may be arid and antiseptic and rotting in its own juices well past the sell by date, but it’s art for art’s sake and for fuck’s sake. And it’s for mine and everyone else’s sake that I throw your flesh and gristle against the four walls of my cell. To see what sticks. To see if you stick around for seconds. To see if you stick around to the end of this minute. To see if you can stick to me like glue until I sleep, dream, toss and turn. To see if you’ll wake me at dawn with a choral clashing of beauty and violence, a breathless climax that comes in my cranium. Can you last the distance, lover? Can you? You’ve proven yourself for nine years, but can you improve yourself for nine or nineteen more? Here’s the deal, right. Here’s the deal. I’m not asking for much — only what you want to give me that I’m too shy and goody two shoes to take. Except when I gorge on you in an act of self-loathing word lust, of course. So. Give me your straight backs, your crossed lines, your dotted eyes, your parted thighs, your dangerous curves, your seamy underbelly and your pregnant pauses — and then I’ll see what I can do. I’ll see what I can do. I still won’t promise to kiss you on the mouth, though. I’ll just hide away here, scrabbling in the dirt and scribbling for dear disastrous life, croaking ’til I croak my last. Because it’s all I know. It’s all I am. It’s all I do. And that’s an end to it.