You lay there with him, naked and wild. You didn't even notice me. You moaned.
called his hands wondrous.
howled. I crashed my fist against your mirrored wall. If it hurt,
I don't remember. But it brought your attention to me. You didn't
bother to cover yourself as you rose from the bed. Neither did he.
weren't sorry. You weren't ashamed.
swore I had none. You wouldn't believe me. I wanted to touch you,
but you winced and jerked away.
called me a fool. You told me of the men you had invited. Into your
room, into your bed, into your body.
called you a whore. I slapped you across the face.
man seized me. He was strong. He was ruthless. He was a leader of
a street gang. He hit me, and I went out like a lamp switched off.
remember the warehouse. I remember the electric saw. I wish I could
forget the saw but I can't. You took care of that. You played one
of our records as the saw spewed sparks on my skin and ate through
said justice was holy.
one day, I've met the man they called the Machinist. He built devices
that painted copies of Modigliani, more flawless than the originals.
Devices that transplanted brain cells. Machines that could please
your body better than a human lover could. Creatures of metal and
plastic that spoke in languages never invented and traveled the seventh
dimension. He was an amateur broker, and a bad one, too.
saved him from the crash, and he would be forever grateful. I described
my ideas to him. It took him ten years to build the machines.
I've been watching you.
stand here looking at you, and I remember. It hurts.
have no music, but I have hatred. My love has been fermenting in the
fragrant brew of pain and longing and envy until it grew slimy and
stand here looking at you, and I enjoy. It hurts.
best machine sits in the middle, the shining towers locked in energy
circuits, sewing through your skin with the ever-moving titanium needles.
The sharp teeth of the synthesizer digging into the lump of your gutted
midsection. Your throat skinned, red, raw, impaled on the nanosilver
vertebrae of the primary sequencer. Your eyeballs dancing on the leashes
of the optical nerves as the red and blue columns of the equalizer
rise and fall, up and down. Your best records singing on the tiny
disks spinning on the delicate dishes of your naked joints. Your skin
is pulled tight over the surround-sound dynamics.
tiny nerves are alive with brilliant pain beneath that taut, spread
skin. My expensive machines wash you with vivifying liquids, sending
breathing electric charges through you, turning the living rhythms
of your flesh, the silent screams of your naked nerves, into a new
have no mouth, and you can't lie.