Love in the Time of Metal and Flesh
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- Markus Selvage has been bent by life, ground up and spit out again. In San Francisco's darkest sexual underground, he is a perpetual innocent, looking within bodies — his own and others’ — for the lost secrets of satisfaction. But extreme body modification is only the beginning of where he will go before he's finished...
linoleum and stainless steel wall panels, with rubber mats underfoot. Massive surgical lamps nodded like hugely distended heads over a pair of slab tables complete with blood gutters. There were instrument trays standing by, covered with shrink-wrap. Stainless shelving on the walls featured an astonishing array of blades, metal objects, prostheses and electrical devices. No one was in the room. Danni stopped with a sigh that sounded like the smallest of orgasms. “Isn’t it beautiful?” This
the lying, whispering nurses would have vanished. My head twitches now when I wish to turn it. Soon I will see. But I am still skin-blind. I think I am still heart-blind, though this slow seep of regret like tar in California sands would seem to be the same as dawn creeping through a drawn shade into the last day of a junkie’s life. There is so much I cannot feel now. Danni’s presence, like a spark in the corner of my vision, is dark. My own hands and feet. Even the rattling gears and springs
spoke for both sisters a lot. In his experience, Anna did a lot of things for both sisters. “And . . . ?” Markus didn’t go around Lockhart High. He hadn’t been in school, not really, since the whole rape thing. There had been tutoring in juvie, but somehow the idiot defender on his rap had gotten DNA testing on the tissue samples from Suzie Elle’s abortion—and of course there had been no match to him at all. Nobody had bothered to test Billy Hardegree. They’d just let Markus out of juvie with a
the human body, the place where everything comes to die, or migrates to in the time after death, ever seeking repatriation with the great unknown. Markus sails the standing wave of heme, wallowing in his own oxygenation, dodging killer t-cells and the mighty whites that sound and thrash amid the depths of the vessels and vesicles which writhe within him. He is not sure if this is a voyage of the mind or a voyage of the body. While he has handled several livers in his life, he is fairly certain
Tildy go to school on time. There the three of them were, first, second and third grade, though he should have been in fourth, or maybe even fifth, by his age and size. The house had changed over the years, too. Sail had taken up painting, mostly on pieces of silk from the Goodwills in Lockhart and Austin, which she sold for enough money for dope and beer and food, in roughly that order. Saturday nights, if he was good, and good to her, Markus got to share the dope and beer. When she didn’t