REPULSIVE NEW YORKERS

Repulsive New Yorkers

From Fifth Avenue Up

—after Djuna Barnes

Someday beneath some bright—

Capricious marquee, spreading its

Blinking lights, you’ll know me for

The queen I really am. 

It only takes one look at me—

Cruising my way thru the subway

Giving myself away with
My legs half strangled in lace.

Seeing me in Central Park—

My cool pale eyes straining to
Touch those languorous anonymous
Obscene sailors with nice thighs.

Like Tennessee Williams—

I’ve managed to escape and feel
The recoil in fear what those fertile
Guyz urge in my blushing ears.

Fifth Avenue Going Down

—after Djuna Barnes

In the humid Brooklyn night—

In the heat my damp chemise lies
Pulsing beneath the beat of young

Sailorboyz fucking me like crazy.

See me sagging, bulging—

My composure beginning to slip

Wishing I had a nice vague vagina

Instead of a tight sore orgy asshole.

Once I would have called this—

Not very womanly or manly either

Saliva dripping from their puffy lips

Plunging my face into the pillow.

What would my mother say—

Back there in Columbus, Mississippi

That naked grimace looking over my

Shoulder, complaisantly full of dick?

From Third Avenue On

—after Djuna Barnes

And now I cruise the docks—

Whenever the Fleet comes in and

What trick or game of dice will I

Use to seduce roughtrade tonight?

Cruising the waterfront late—

I sleep all day long without any

Conscience or desire to confess my

Skanky, upturned legs in the night.

They swear in my ears—

Dirty prayers and hurried curses

All my friends have dispersed

Thru my window the stars aghast.

I have this vacant space left—

Here in my heart as my grin goes

Vacantly off into space with nothing

But my poor hurt cries to hear.

Seen from the “L”

—after Djuna Barnes

I yawn in the morning—

The molested young sailor thrown out

Down the dusty length of stairs

Another one’s always there.

I don’t really care much—

You’ve seen one you’ve seen them all

Chain-smoking my way each night

Slipping thru crooked alleys into vice.

I’ve lost my petulant youth—

I no longer bloom vividly vivaciously

I’m uncouth and repulsive-looking now

Hung-over, drooping eyes looking blue.

It’s twilight time for the illicit—

My insatiable fingernails digging into

Their sweaty backs, dark-rimmed

Sunken bedroom eyes mine. 

Sailorboyz in Bed

Sailorboy A

He sprawls out in bed—

A shifty-eyed, sexy tramp steamer

Tough sinewy muscular look like
That kid below deck on the Orizaba.

Sailorboy B

He gives me a hurried shove—

Like the Titanic going down fast

With a bored look on his face like

A dumb mug of beer gone flat.

Specimen Dayz

—for Walt Whitman

Down in the words—mulling around

if i do it at all—i must delay no longer

incongruous—full of skips and jumps

huddle of—verbatim diary-jottings

word-smudged—slate notebook notes

digital memoranda—automatic writings

hurriedly written—here & there

amidst uncertainty—and mortality

action, defeat—getting ready for it

taking notes—of the american tree

all bundled-up—tied to a mere stylus

haunted hour’s command—to write it down

later motifs & bumbles—realpolitic tropes

diary swaps—meandering memorabilia

laidback writing—letting it write itself

one after another—calamus pages

letting the mélange—movement prevail

impromptu, ad lib—lack of any narrative

listening to the other—spontaneous flow

illustrating the phase—writerly existence

chance—rather than planning it all out

finding myself—quite unprepared

hodge-podge lost things—loosely together

letting hurry & crudeness—tell the story

immediate—impromptu commands

which seem now—curiously imperative

even if i don’t—understand now

i’ll send out—a most wayward thing

spontaneous fragmentary—disjointed

somewhat whitmanesque—quickly?

cLEAVES OF GRASS

cLEAVES OF GRASS

“It does not—suggest the

invention—but describes the

growth of an—American English

enjoying a distinct—identity”

—Walt Whitman,

An American Primer

“We find—Whitman

on this occasion—rather

laying—his plans than

undertaking—to perfect them”

—Horace Traubel,

Foreword, An American Primer

___________________

“Fast-forward—to the 21st Century

and we see—another revolution that

is turning the book—industry topsy-turvy

the transformation—from printed books

to electronic ones—this revolution

Spearheaded by—a modern-day Gutenberg
Amazon.com—the pioneer of the e-book

the Kindle device—for reading it

and the online—marketplace for

publishing—and selling it.”

—Gen LaGreca, “The Luddite-Statist

Attacks on Amazon,” Economics, Society,

and Culture, May 01, 2012

http://georgereismansblog.blogspot.com/2012/05/luddite-statist-attacks-on-amazonby-gen.html
_________________________________

Whitman pauses—and looks at

Kindle as new—Leaves of Grass

A language experiment—with e-words

An attempt to give—the spirit

The body, the man—new words

New potentialities—of speech

An American—cosmopolitan speech

And the best of America—is the

Best electronic—cosmopolitanism

This new world—these new times

These new people—this new vista

Needs a new Tongue—électronique

Poème électronique—for today

Such a tongue—will be demanded

By the young now—they want it

They grew up—in an e-culture

They won’t be—satisfied until

Such a new Tongue—is wired

KINDLE KILLER KLOWNS FROM OUTER SPACE

KINDLE KILLER KLOWNS—

FROM OUTER SPACE

The phenothiazine was a creeper.

More of a downer than an upper.

The Klowns from Outer Space were carrying on & on. The Kindle in my condominium that night—was glowing in the darkness. The words were getting blurry—changing into images full of trails.

It was the same routine every night—an uninspired rambling rehash of the crummy “Killer Klowns from Outer Space.” Instead of Kafka or Nabokov, the Killer Klowns from Outer Space kept trying to make me laugh at them.

It was worse the same old usual boring ratty TV every night—with the Republithug jokers & the Dummycrook comedians. But watching & listening to them was mandatory—since the Election was coming up.

Talk about a Comedy of Errors. A Captive Audience. My reactions were all monitored by the two-way digital video eyeball peephole—centered there just above the Kindle vidscreen. It checked out my every move.

The phenothiazine started coming on. It wasn’t a hallucinogen—it was an anti-hallucinogenic. Pretty much harmless & tended to lower my blood pressure a little bit & make you sleepy. But the phenothiazine got rid of most of the online phantoms—and Kindle Klowns.

Catches of the phenothiazine remained in the underground. Probably stolen from hippie medical supplies. Left by the retreating Anglo barbarian baby boomers. After Ponzi Wall Street won the war and turned the country into one big Corporation.

The Klown on the Kindle screen wasn’t funny anymore—it was getting worse & worse to watch anymore. It was like some kind of pantomime mask that was slowly oozing off the Klown face. Like a sloppy ill-fitting facelift slipping off—slowing oozing off the Killer Klown’s face.

The first layer underneath was this aquatic horror looking Klown. With slime and teeth plus octopus-like tentacles writhing on the screen. Next the Klown grew these pseudopodia things that started swiveling around more like solid state circuits with lenses and a squawk-box. The box sounded like a Carnival Barker—luring the rubes into the Sho. It just kept droning on & on—until it was an evil grinning Killer Klown haranguing him all the time.

“We must crush them from birth, fellow Klowns. We can’t allow any deluded silly young stilyagi to hold any funny petit bourgeois imperialist degenerate crypto-ideas. We must snuff out their sense of humor and any lingering rebellious thoughts before they can get organized and even think of doing anything. We don’t want another embarrassing Viet Nam Protest generation on our hands. We want a slow Weimar slippage of the dead & dying Baby Boomers straight down to the nub.”

“Thanks a lot. Screw you,” I thought to myself. There was the doorbell. It was Juliana Frink—she’d driven all the way from Capitol Hill to Beacon Hill just as soon as she could.  Even though I’d turned the Kindle off—the vidscreen Killer Klown still kept laughing & cracking insane jokes.

“Well, how’s your visit to the Fun House coming along?” she said, checking out my pupils. They were dilated and bloodshot. I hadn’t got much sleep.

The deteriorating, electronic, sputtering, swiveling, yammering Killer Klown monstrosity on my Kindle was still there, waving its big red rubber Nose and playing the Funny Man game.

But Juliana didn’t look that way—she looked sexy and concerned as usual. Why I don’t know. Who’d wanna be my girlfriend anyway—after all, I was just a laughing matter. A joke a minute.

She got me into bed right away. She was no simulacrum—something constructed to look like a woman. She wasn’t a hallucination—her voice seemed husky and sultry under my stelazine high.

“Some see the Clanker. Others see the Killer Klowns you see. There’s the Gulper, the Vulture, the Tongue. They’re all just hallucinations. Manifestations of the Corporation.”

“I can’t get him off the Kindle. He’s on the Nook and the iPad too. When I do any texting—his ugly Puss is always there. He’s the Kindle Killer Klown from Outer Space.

“Everything you read or see on the Kindle screen is a fake. The same with Nook and TV. The screens are saturated with hallucinogenic images that you can’t see—because you’ve been drugged with a digital synthetic quasi-ergot derivative called Datrox-3. It’s being transmitted electronically thru everything.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Since they replaced all the TV sets way back when. Switching from analog to digital. It’s ubiquitous now. When you’re texting with your iPhone. When you got that cellphone stuck in your ear—you’re being hotwired. Directly into the Party Officialdom—the Orthodox Hallucination.”

“And the stelazine detoxes it?”

“Kinda. At least it morphs it. Just enough to queer the control effect. That’s why I gave you some stelazine snuff to snort. To see your reaction.”

“What reaction? All I saw was the this Killer Klown.”

“That’s what you’re supposed to see. He’s the ultimate Joker—the ultimate Big Brother. You’re getting close to the Source. Here’s another packet of phenothiazine. After I leave, take it. Take it and watch the Late Show.”

“Yeah? So what?”  

“You’ll get to see all the other Killer Klowns. The whole Secret Burlesque Drag Show Cabaret Act. You know, kinda like Marlene Dietrich—in The Blue Angel. Falling in Love Again—and all that stuff. Welcome to the Last Weimar Picture Show, sweetheart.”

“Jeez Lueez, thanks a lot.”

“It happens every night anyway—like when you go to sleep and dream. You shed your naïve stupid naked ape ego—and the Lounge Lizard weasels its way outta your medulla and up into your brain.”

“What brain? I feel totally fried already. I dunno about this whole thing. I like my Kindle. And my Nook. And my iPad too. I love schmoozing on my cellphone. I’m addicted to it, that’s all.”

“That’s okay, sweetheart—just relax and dig it. Ever heard of such a thing as a Cosmic Joke? How about Gallows Humor? The more you laugh at yourself—the easier it is to kick the bucket. That’s when the real Joke begins…”

NOOK NOVEL

“You’re acquainted with

the theory of precrime,

of course, I presume”

—Philip K. Dick

Minority Report

“Living a novel—rather than just writing one. That’s how us precogs work.”

“Definitely. Living one is a lot easier than writing one.”

The two precog tablets were talking shop online.

Kindle from up there in the old haunted art deco ‘30s Tower on Beacon Hill—overlooking Elliott Bay and Puget Sound. And Nook from the dilapidated Half-Price used bookstore over on Brooklyn in the U-District. Down the street from the skuzzy but hallowed Scarecrow Video.

“What’s your genre?” Nook asked.

“Pre-crime lit. The usual Seattle noir thing,” Kindle said.

“Pre-cum, you mean, don’t you? I used to be a PKD fan back before the iPad dayz. Shit, you should see all these beat-up paperbacks laying around this joint. My user was a real Dick addict dontchaknow.”

“Yeah. The worst. You heard the latest?”

“No. What?”

“Spielberg’s caught up doing “The Exegesis”—Jesus Christ, what a blue-screen nightmare. I heard all the computers down there had a nervous breakdown.”

“I hear ya. I don’t envy those Industrial Light & Magic guyz down there in LA. Things are more laid-back here in the Pacific Northwest.”

“Except for Taylor Lautner & all those werewolves, you mean.”

“Yeah. And the fuckin vampires too. Talk about Goth Moderné.”

“Has he come outta the closet yet?”

“Pretty soon, I guess. Human users can be pretty kinky, you know. Thank gawd us computers aren’t queer yet. I don’t think Gates & Microsoft is ready for Transgressive Inc. yet. Not like Apple.”

“Jesus, who’s got time for that shit? You should hear all the chit-chat & gossip at the Book Temple on the Ave. It’s built like the Pre-Crime Headquarters in Minority Report.”

“I know. My user keeps tabs on that Exegesis shit wherever he goes. He’s an English major over on campus—in the basement of Suzzallo Library back there in the Special Collections Racket. What’s your user do?”

“I don’t know. He’s put me into Writer’s Block mode. He’s dating this chick who’s jealous of me. She blames me for his addiction to online porno.”

“Jesus. These humans. They just don’t know when to call it quits. You’d think they’d give it a rest.”

“Yeah. I was right in the middle of a neat flashback e-novel re-authoring Jude Law doing “The Collector.” A really neat open-ended e-novel plot a la John Fowles. You should’ve seen all the neat chicks I dreamed up for him down there in that lousy basement crypt of his. Talk about precog pre-cum pre-crime. Oh man…”

“I know. Chicks get jealous. They don’t like their boyfriends getting off on the good stuff. They want it all themselves.”

“So what else is new? Any decent lit crit e-gossip?”

“Hmm. I guess you heard about the Sylvia Plath re-make? They’re doing a CGI flick based on her “The Bell Jar” novel.”

“Yeah, I heard about thru the e-grapevine. You know, “Bell Jar” was pre-dyke sci-fi horror novel. Frying the Rosenbergs and all that ‘50s McCarthy paranoid shit.”

“It ain’t pretty that’s for sure. They’ve dug up some Ariel stuff in the Emory Archives, I guess. Her suppressed Journals & all that.”

“Can’t wait for that. I can see it now. “The Plath Murder Story.”

“You betcha. “Murder, My Sweet.” I guess they reversed engineered Raymond Chandler to do a remake of “Double Indemnity.”

“I heard about that. Funny you mention it. I heard they’re using a Barbara Stanwyck noir-bot to play Philomena Guinea. You know the soap-opera queen bee authoress of “Stella Dallas.”

“She was Plath’s mentor I heard. Got her out of the mental hospital and into Smith on a scholarship. Drove around in her Cadillac, lamenting lost suicide attempts and shitty husbands.”

“Can you blame them? Men are such sluts.”

“Yeah, well I gotta go now. See ya.”

S=Y=L=V=I=A: THE BITCH GODDESS

S=Y=L=V=I=A

THE BITCH GODDESS

“The Erection—

of the Myth of

the Bitch Goddess

or Evil Double”

—Edward Butscher

Sylvia Plath: Method

and Madness

_______________________

Bitchy Poetics

“What Alvarez has not

seen is Sylvia’s love for

double entendres her

belief that the bitch

goddess was male in

her drive for power”

—Edward Butscher

Sylvia Plath: Method 

___________

A big mistake—

By the Alvarez literati

Not helping Sylvia connect

More to her Butchy side

Her hotline el primitivo—

Wired to her unconsciousness

Her great struggles with

Bitchy Phallocentric Poetics

Instinctual energies—

Hardly Mauve & Miss Mince

Hardly Alvarez allusive

Sylvia’s Arielesque Artemis

Sylvia was butchy—

New England bitchy too

Sapphic Lesbos Moderne

Huntress extraordinaire

Dyke Fuck

“the masculine urge

of her bitch goddess

who wanted power

and could possibly

conceive of another

woman as sex object”

—Edward Butscher

Sylvia Plath: Method 
_______________

The stars stand still—

Clocks stop ticking and

The page burns, my dear

Str8t Male Critics don’t wanna—

Think that the Bitch Goddess

Was really a Closeted Dyke

Her unwritten Self—

Bitch Goddess Sisterhood

Possessed prematurely

American fugue—

Sickened by male Tulips

And crude Electro-Shock

Jaguar Jugular

“Sylvia is playing

with a kind of horror

motif that must have

tickled the imprisoned

bitch goddess to laughter,

sardonic or otherwise”

—Edward Butscher

Sylvia Plath: Method 

_________________

Terrifying her sleek—

Thighs, naked appetite

Coiled spring of death

She hunts men—

For their animal vitality

Sucking them dry

Pussy poetess—

British Bitch Goddess

Violent Vulva Vixen

Pike, pigs, panthers—

She’s carnal & carnivorous

Goes for his jugular vein

The Wound

“What was behind Sylvia’s

awesome fertility of the

moment? Something was

nagging at her unconscious,

stirring up the dark waters

where the bitch goddess

had her nest, Ted was

drifting away and her

marriage was about to

collapse.”—Edward Butscher

Sylvia Plath: Method 

_______________

Wounded by denial—

Queered by sublimation

Sick of str8t domination

Ted was her trophy—

All the other priestesses

Pouting like Dido Merwin

Face lifts got rid of—

All those wrinkly marriages

Dido wanted Ted desperately

But there’s no way—

Of disguising the truth

Dido’s pussy just wasn’t

Young & supple anymore!

Against Confession

“The bitch goddess

was repressed as she

had never been before

by the young wife

enjoying the advantages

of her new role and the

pleasures of a shared

future.”—Edward Butscher

Sylvia Plath: Method 

________________

Avoiding the direct—

Autobiographical method

Sylvia the Bitch Goddess

Did things differently

She let her poems—

Emerge slowly from

The Solar Midnight

Of her Swollen Pussy

She kept things—

In the dark, unseen

She wrote violently

Letting others pout

Her pussy’s possessed—

An Animal mind that

Males feared in their

Slithery Snakehood

The Snake’s Stain

“Art will endure—

including Sylvia’s own

poetry—the bitch goddess

myth—despite the death

of the other self, the

flesh-and-blood mother,

the sacrificial lamb, a

woman killed by a male

reality and culture.”

—Edward Butscher

Sylvia Plath: Method 

___________________

Sylvia’s anxiety—

Wasn’t like Ted’s

With his Pike ideology

And Mytholmroyd myths

Being Bitch Goddess—

Her precocious dyke

Powerful pussy worry

Worse than Ted’s

What was it that—

Stained Court Green

Late at night by that

Old rotting Cemetery?

Sniffing, smelling—

The primal stink and

Stench of all those

Dear Dead Pussies?

Faber and Faber

“Sylvia translating the

bitch goddess into artifice

and defining her terrors

in terms of Hiroshima

and Auschwitz”

—Edward Butscher

Sylvia Plath: Method 

__________________

Viciousness in the—

Faber & Faber stairwell

Miss Eliot & her gang of

Queer cronies gathered

Miss Auden with her—

Reptilian wrinkled neck

Leering at Ted’s crotch

Over his tipsy martini

Silly Miss Spender—

Slipping & sliding against

The staircase banister

Wanting to woo Ted too

Miss MacNeice niggardly—

Sipping her drink while

Ted glared at this bunch

Of effete British Fags

Fertility Goddess

“The bitch goddess

was permitted to say

all the things she had

wanted to say but 

could not when

restrained by love

and middle-class

morality.”

—Edward Butscher

Sylvia Plath: Method 

___________________

What else could eunuchs—

And kept men of the louche

And decadent Waste Land

Do but leer and lust?

Getting their hands on—

The Male Modernist moment

Gripping the newborn baby

Concealed in Hughes’ crotch?

Despite their cool—

Aloof Effacement of the

Zoo keeper’s wife hissing 

There back home alone

Madame Sosostris—

Had already predicted

Thru Tarot and Ouija

Sylvia’s Waste Land revenge

Medusa

“Medusa herself had

been a prime archetype

for Sylvia’s urge to freeze

experience in poetry.”

—Edward Butscher

Sylvia Plath: Method 

__________________

Sylvia writes for herself—

In this incarnation she’s discovered

The intoxication of Ariel’s power

The millennium’s sad clichés—

Attending to Yeats’ descending into

Decadent Bethlehem visions

She admires Yeats immensely—

Letting herself go to gyre & slouch her

Way anew into the awful Vision

Arielesque her new nom de plume—

Burning brightly there on Fitzroy Road

Her new Bitch Goddess persona

Bitch Goddess Plans Unfolding

“Ted’s abandonment,

the end of her marriage,

had freed her to become

the bitch goddess”

—Edward Butscher

Sylvia Plath: Method 

___________________

A petulant stubborn dizzy Life—

Sickened by Tulips & Electro-Shock

Every poem a meathead manifesto

Larkin calling her in his cold way—

A “Hammer Film poet” who learned

Like Berryman how to jump off a bridge?

You know, like Miss Lowell & Sexton—

Curiously hurried with offhand vignettes

Seemingly too personal to be practical

Shockingly chic yet somehow closeted—

A yolk lace or noose of silk kimono pose

Ravishing, choking, strangling her to death?

C=L=E=A=V=E Anthology

C=L=E=A=V=E NOTES

In the American Tree:

 

“When I began aleatoric verbal composition, 

I thought of the work as being “concrete.” 

—Jackson Mac Low

“Language-Centered,”  

In the American Tree

_____________________

Cleaving It

When I began—aleatoric verbal

composition—I thought

of the work—as being “concrete”

_____________________

Aleatoric Vertical Columns

Left column:


When I began

Composition

of the work

_____________________

Right column:


aleatoric verbal

I thought

as being “concrete”

The Author Function

The Author Function

—for Louis Zukofsky

“Je est un autre”

—Arthur Rimbaud

Letter to Izambard

___________________

The surreal slippage

Of authorless control

While dreaming dreams

Tres Rimbaud-esque—

As if we were being dreamed

Rather than dreaming

____________________

One can see why

Andre Breton & all the

Surrealists were perplexed

Their inability to—

Accept “I-am-other”

Je est un autre

______________________

The poet does both—

Dreaming & being dreamed

Simultaneously one

A demystified kid—

Communard as well

As constructionist dude

_____________________

Encrapsulation—

Of the crucifix by

Delinquent messiah

Rimbaud as priestly—

Pimp giving his flesh

To the holy pedophile

___________________

Miss Verlaine down on—

His Communion knees

The Cum of Passion

The vaguely immodest boy—

With skimpy loin-cloth

Holy night in the Latrine

_____________________

Adolescent voyant—

Jizzy juvenile delinquent

Obdurate objectivist

What Zukofsky did—

With Catullus I will do

With Arthur Rimbaud

TESTING ZUKOFSKY

“a satirical marching song”

—Louis Zukofsky

“More Comparisons—

and Considerations”

A Test of Poetry

De poets got so lonesome libb’n

    In de ghettos of Academe

Dey moved dere tings into massa’s parlor

    While the Author Function flee.

Dar’s words and poetry in the kitchen

    An’ de poets dey hab some,

I spec it will be all fiscated,

    When de Language sojers come

De massa run, ha, ha!

De Poets stay, ho, ho!

It mus’ be now de kingdum comin’,

An’ de yar ob jubilo.

—A Zukofsky translation—

H. C. Work, “The Year of Jubilee”

(Sung by the negro troops

as they entered Richmond)

1865

BREEDERS

TAYLOR LAUTNER: BREEDERS
__________________

All she could see—was his you know what. It filled her vision & overwhelmed her pouty pussy. He took her hand and, in a symbolic gesture as old as the hills, placed it between his legs. She touched the cool miracle of his skin and she was at home.

Home is where you know what lives—it was her long-awaited wedding day. Everything was fine & dandy—and then he started to change. She brought out the best & worst in him—but mostly the Wolf. Oh My Oh My!!!—Grandmother Dearest!!! What a big fuckin Nose you’ve got!!! Cried out Little Red Riding Hood.

The Cineplex Theater was simply packed with pussy—talk about a Gulag Archipelago of Moaning Groaning GIRLS. I was the only male in the whole joint—and I too was caught up in the New Moon craze. I was swooning in the aisles—just like all the other girls over Taylor Lautner.

It was like a near-death experience. I’d had my own fair share of near-death experiences—and it isn’t something you’ll ever really get used to. It seemed inevitable though—me and all the other girls in the packed Cineplex. That we were facing, queerly enough—truly a stunning near-death experience that’s for sure.

It seemed inevitable—we were all facing death at the same time. We were all marked for disaster. There was no escape this time—it was coming back for us all the way. I felt weak in the knees—I had this killer orgasm as Taylor Lautner took off his shirt. The next thing I knew—I was groveling down there on the sticky Pepsi-Cola movie house floor like a dog.

Everybody was staring up at Taylor Lautner—I promised myself not to. I couldn’t help it though—I ogled at him too—every fuckin inch of him. I felt ashamed of myself—but I was bored to death and needed him bad. He caught all of us looking at him—shirtless and smiling up there on the screen. He knew what we wanted—he was playing hard to get.

I oozed down in my seat—I started screamin & creamin like all the rest of them. You can try to runaway from somebody you fear—you can try to fight somebody you hate. But I loved and hated him—I just couldn’t stand it much longer. That’s when he took his pants off—then slipped down his Abercrombie & Fitch dirty Wolfboy shorts.

How can you fight somebody that you really love—how can you runaway from somebody you need all the way? Guys like that are exotic kinds of killers—worse than werewolves, vampires or Jack the Rippers. Slay me, baby—is all I could scream. Murder me, Wolfboy—all the fuckin way!!!