Too long I've rested upon my throne.
Ordained as ruler,
I wield a sceptre
imbued with old indoctrinated notions.
Bound in aged, tired traditions.
Obstinacy clasped tight within my fingers.

Living by the
foundations laid,
imposed by predecessors before.
I realise that I am but caged
within my self enforced confines.

I want what lays beyond...
But I am afraid...
And more...

I must embrace the unknown.
Be fearless...
And take to the darkness.

Because...

One can only fly free into greatness
if one is unafraid to take the leap
into changing winds.

They often ask
"Did you see _ last night?"
"Do you watch _?"
"No."
I don't have a ******* television.
There are enough
Actors acting
At work
On the street
At mom's house
At the grocery store
At parties
At the bar
I don't want to watch more when
I'm alone.
The dancing spider on the wall
The paralyzed lines of the book
The breathing notes of the music
The slow pour of cold beer
I sit here and stare
At nothing
Just like you

Lack of wisdom
Leads
To
Folly.  Lack
Of folly
Leads
To wisdom.

He chews his cud at her.
She blows her cigarette smoke at him.
The equilibrium is uncomfortable but scenic.
The eyes of the walls stained yellow long ago
and every room feels like every room they've ever been in.

He rubs his shirt neck on his nose.
She flicks her last molar irritated.
a broken radiator works overtime, wheezing.
Holes in the bread, where she cut away the mould,
the food's still cold, but, for this, he'll eat it.

He never loved her personality.
She never loved his face.
Both of them knew, for this, they'd never leave them.
She says "I do ******* love you you know",
as she smoked her last blow.
He says "I'd love another cup of tea dear".

My queen of the spider’s flies awaits me,
To tame my black iron horses of blood.
A mistress of the finite she will be,
A whisperer to dead hearts drowned with love.
Into the dead mans pupil I lead her,
Across ocean floor deserts for our right,
Fishing for men, luminescent and fair
And My darkness will not reflect her light.
I am ashes to which she is the spark.
Sowing her lands a path down in dead grass.
Strangle fresh air for its freshness, this land I’ll mark,
I’ll declare my love in the fear that she’ll pass,
But for all my passion’s flames on her tears,
She is but steam, just out of grasp gossameres.

“Hello”
“Hello, and you are?”
“I am here, you can tell that by the fact that you can’t see anything behind me”
“Looks like we’re both just occupying space”
“Always”
“Why do you wear that suit? When I see men in suits all I see is a collection of different proportioned black and white shapes and I imagine they want to wear masks”
“Most people like to show off even how ordinary they are, of course when the suit comes off we all like to be kooky and different, but who isn’t these days”
“You sound like an office man”
“You seem like a Rachel”
“No”
“The red ring of lipstick round your glass and the way your shoe points nuzzle each other makes me picture that name”
“I don’t look like my name, like a celebrity or a country or something”
“Can I have your name?”
“Only for a second”
“I wanted something which was yours, even if for just a second”
“You didn’t ask to see my face and that is much more personal to me than a name which I imagine I share with many other people”
“Probably the same as your earrings”
“What’s your name?”
“I took it off for this evening, it didn’t go well with my suit.”

I don’t want a sunbeam
give that to Jesus.
Don’t bother me with purity,
don’t let me make shadows
out of you.

I don’t want a butterfly
batting along on the wind.
The wind of my word,
on the gale of my opinion.

I don’t want a pearl,
something that needs to be made.
Made from gritty sand, held close,
and pressurised round and edgeless.

I don’t want a rose
called what I want it to be,
cut where I want it to be,
on my lapel, for when it makes me look best.

I don’t want conversations like schizophrenia.
If you want me to be able to explain you in four lines,
I don’t want you.