From fecund to feckless

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.