She needed to feel in order to fuck. When she looked in the mirror, physiotherapist she saw what other people wanted her to think. Her hair was crimson down her waist. A roboraven sat on her shoulder. Its blue eyes blinked like icicles. It told her she was the loveliest liar.
“Jesus doesn’t want me for a stunbeam,” Spock spoke. He was the coldest killer in the galaxy. He shot first and didn’t even edit the video to make it seem like he was a good guy. He sat alone in barrooms, just waiting for someone to pick a fight with him. He played Slayer’s “Angel of Death” on the jukebox.
There’s a cage in Heaven where they keep the most beautiful birds. Heaven is a nightclub in Costa Rica. All the rich bitches and coldhearts dance there. It’s almost like amphetamine salts evaporated on their tongues. Osmosis of the soul. You look in their eyes and you won’t see anything there.
The man with white/blond hair has the emptiest eyes. He might have replaced his irises with mirrors, so that you could only see yourself when you looked inside. He thought it was a sin to get close to anyone. His name was Jack King. He’d killed four women before but he didn’t regret a thing.
She stared up at the night sky and knew that for every star, diet
there was a person who had died in the past. A godship flew high above her, see
alien lights blinking red and yellow. Wolves howled in the canyon.
“Why can’t I feel?” she wondered. She scratched at plastic skin aimlessly. Her dog, pills
Volvo, nuzzled against her belly. He was black and tan, like a Yuengling. “The Young Ones” played on the TV downstairs. Stars fell and crashed and burned, ruining fields and farms, cows and chupacabras.
“Did you know Salvador Dali made the Chupa Chups logo?” Alix Kidd asked her. He was her personal PDA. “És rodó i dura molt.”
“I could care less,” she smiled. A lazy owl flew by the moon. Skyscrapers crumbled on the beach. Eco-terrorists were at work again. Harsh explosions, bombs and ambrosia, clattered in the night.
She saw a ghost ship sail into the harbor with her spyglass. Dead pirates, dung beetles and other filthy things danced on the deck. They tied a man named Jose inside a wicker box. They doused him with gasoline, blared “Gasolina” on their ghetto blaster, laughed and screeched and then lit the bitch up.
His skin sizzles like Applewood bacon on a Wendy’s burger. Chunks of flesh and fat fall down as he shakes, rattles and rolls. He’s screaming for a savior but nobody answers. A gold cross spills from his hand and shines.
British Petroleum bigwigs bathe in oil and blood money. They make-out with each other and roll around like swine, making promises. They carve pentagrams and other secret symbols on their chests and arms, blood leaking into the pool they call “The Theater of Heaven.”
She thinks back to a time, sixteen years ago, when she fell on hot concrete. She scraped her knee, crimson everywhere, crying. She limped home, fat tears dripping in lush grass. Grasshoppers jumped away, frightened.
“Mother, help me,” Tara said. Tara was the name the government gave her when she was born. It meant something but she didn’t know what. She preferred not to own a name anymore. A name was just a cage and she was wild and untamed. She was she. She was.
Mother took her in her arms and comforted her. Her skin was silver. “You’ll be okay,” Mother said, pouring alcohol on her cut flesh and wiping it with cotton. It stung worse than the bee she accidently put her hand down on when she was swinging.