2008-12-21 - 12:43 a.m.

You were lying in bed when it came on the radio. Lust For Life by Iggy Pop. The tears seeped as it dawned on you, the understanding, the realisation. The arrival of Johnny Yen, your secret self bringing trickery and mischief now made flesh machine. The torture film conjuring your own private cinema, replaying your last murder. Lust, a Deadly Sin, and you, its most fervent practitioner. Oh, you lust alright. You lust for lives and sin, for chickens to hypnotise. They are yours and only yours, these clucking puppets at your command. You strip them, you tease them, you beat their brains. You no longer itch as the lust takes over and their lifeblood ebbs, the lotion teasing and enflaming the lust. It’s on you now and you’ll never get it off. Iggy has spoken and the mask of the second person now crumbles as I walk into the night.

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