As soon as their eyes melted together, he knew that this was fatal. Hers, emerald green flecked with gold: unfathomable, seemingly endless. His, dark and unseemly: muddy brown, flecked with the shadows of regret. She permeated distain, emanated violence, under dusty barlights. She carried so many memories of bruises and broken bottles, the sadness of uninvited fingers glint at the corner of her iris. Her hair was a conflagration, a phoenix drowning in fire. He was enraptured, entranced, captured, subjugated by her ultimate beauty. She was this incandescent succubus etched into the surface of the earth, all scorched and parched, begging, pleading for her sweet redemption.
She waits to consume his flesh, all withered and weak. She is a papercut from a bible page, the fetid run off from a ritualistic mass grave: the shining effluent of the stars. Her enchanting scent pervades his senses, like bitter liquorice and cherry flavoured suicide. She is a walking genocide, dipped in honey and poison. She glides across the floor, and every solitary soul is transfixed by her, cigarettes slither over dried up lips, expectant and starved.
He envisions them entwined, cast in sinful light, he begs salvation from this angelic carcrash, this circus freakshow. He, a skinless, protean foetus suspended in a jar, a rank discarded afterbirth in a plastic bag, floating in a river. She is a tumultuous carnival ride, sticky and sweet, murder in a sugar candy coating. He prays for moments drenched in sunshine, hanging from the ceiling, upside down, one congealed mess of ecstasy, all rolled up together.
They are rampaging joy, flicking matches down onto a wooden world, fucking in industrial estate car parks, watching the buildings dissolve and the liars burn, all twisted up, throwing starfishes at each other’s carotid arteries, juggling larynxes and supping at dripping spinal columns. Skinned alive, red raw, all that meat, they will rot together, under the tarmac.
He has a secret cave where he keeps his feelings, she tiptoes along the blade of a blood red crescent moon: a sharp intake of breath, a subtle flick of the hair, a flutter of heartstrings, a barely perceptible moistening of unspeakable parts.
She glitters in the dingy, piss soaked bar, a shining entity of pure possibility and golden light. All of this slaughter persists in his mind, as he keeps his masterpieces all tied up in the attic: bound and gagged and desperate. The pieces and bodyparts all stitched together and sellotaped into a conglomeration of wondrous, breathtaking beauty, shining under neon lights, surrounded by tubs of melting ice cream to keep them fresh. She keeps a cage littered with bits of broken wheelchairs and jars of rose petals and skin grafts. She keeps all of her butcherknives rolled in leather, under her satin, bloodstained bedsheets, the other pieces corroding in the back alley.
As they walk back to her car, barely touching, their love will spill out into the night, to be etched by drunken meteorites that look like trackmarks, reflecting the silver crisscrosses up and down her arms. Together, they are clawmarks on the inside of a coffin, fingernails dislodged and scrabbling against these wooden words. All of the dismemberings that are carved into her soul and all of the chemicals and meathooks that live within her, sparkle on the surface of her skin. She will bind him to the steering column and slowly remove his skin, then sell his kidneys to the corrupt blood banks in the city.
The second their eyes melted together, he knew that this was fatal, but, together, they bring on another bout of torture, she is a champagne flute filled with all of his despair, as she sprinkles silver promises down from the black arc of heaven and brings him succour from these uncontrollable demons. She makes him dance like a demented marionette on threadbare strings: her cunt like a razorblade, he is slowly claimed by this bountiful insanity and joy.