Hillman Zimp, 1964, by Zagato. A coupe proposal (three were made) based on the rear engined Hillman Imp. The Zimp was designed by Ercole Spada with bodywork fabricated in aluminium. Financial difficulties at the Rootes group meant the Zimp never made it beyond the prototype stage
i have forgotten how to be gentle, i think, or else i’m a different kind of gentle now. the kind of gentle that can kill. the kind of gentle that asks to be killed.
i’m the kind of gentle that begs everything that’s listening for death but it doesn’t come, or it does but then i wake up not knowing where i am, my bedroom or yours, or the bottom of the ocean and it’s not fair, do you hear me, it’s not fair to want something so bad and only get to taste it—
i think i’m the poorly-executed drawing on the fridge of the universe and god’s too sadistic to take it down. saying look at this, look at what you did, look at what you are, look at it forever.
i crawl into your bed because it’s the closest i can get to dying anymore. i crawl into your bed for all the romantic gestures like gentle choking, gentle bruising,
i think you know that.
how i use you for pain and not pleasure, or sometimes both, sometimes, if i want it to really hurt. if i think i deserve it. you say i’m too young to feel this way and i say i’ll get older, i say when i grow up i want to be a corpse six feet under so you can walk over my body, dirt in my eyes, seeing nothing.
i think i have forgotten how to be gentle. i think i’m sorry.
fire is supposed to be cleansing.
you read that somewhere. nature’s catharsis.
people say you don’t look before you leap.
shoot first ask questions when you’re dead.
boy explosive. boy self-immolating for fun.
boy proving them right.
the box of matches holds thirty fragile opportunities
to start over new and raw and conflagrant.
you’ve learned to shut down the voice that says don’t.
you’re not sure it exists anymore.
there are bruises like constellations making universes
out of your throat. marks like possession, like mine, like yours.
marks like possession but you belong nowhere, to no one.
marks like possession but you can’t climb into the spaces
between his ribs and settle next to his heart
without turning it black like ash. black like yours.
you want to burn for thinking you even had a chance.
you want to burn the clothes he pulled off of you.
you want fire until everything becomes like blowing glass,
fire until you can mold yourself into a thing
that doesn’t need intimacy.
love-making without the love.
you find yourself in the in-between too often to be comfortable;
not quite whole, not quite non-existent.
you are the firefront.
you, yourself, and that flame on your fingertips, his taste
still on your tongue. you would think that dozens of burns later,
you would have learned how to fix yourself by now.
spark into being. condense into heat. explode into a blistering,
invisible touch that evaporates with the light of day.