It's royal blue  - it's a boy - the heir
the British throne
Buckingham Palace an awaken
bloom - a rebirth -
awaits a princely visit.

Blue - the prince is born -
a full moon, St. Mary's Hospital,
London - To the Duke and Duchess of
Cambridge.
Fear God - Honour the Queen!

I stuffed blood diamonds in your mouth
melted chocolate at your feet
laced your feelings with ivory grain
Sailing in the minks of
your private affairs
venturing upward to the
birds

I stood mum under the heretic of
your eyes
playing dead games and shaking
off a bottle of *****
mirroring all your troubles
from the night
before

I enveloped the strange emotions which we ping as I eclipsed
your world and bid a tearless goodbye but I tanked
Yet I tattooed the pig on the green line
engulfed in diamonds
and drained
by your glorious throne
I pitched the ****** nightingales
a simple truce
feeling blackened with scars
burning in an ocean of salted
lies piped in the shame
of your venom
as I caked
I whispered
ocypus

I prayed to a bloodied red sky while purple with fear
I ran to the bed of the river where I tanked
seeing your soul floating about
I drained the rain as I pinned your
ghost to the wall
He raked your existence with a ding
crossed the road to burn
his ashes and they danced about
inheriting a swiped out
throne
the salt in your tongue
rotting with bitter
I warned you about the
snakes in the bed and the wolf
in the closet
biting off the head of the
lamb

I carried on without you over in my dreams and dropped
all manner of myself by the hint of a storm
fragile
peeling off the layers I sigh
dogged by the gloom
and wheat in your rye
I refocus
flaked in scars
and battles
I am boiled in anger
cracked with laughter
I am beset while enjoying me
a white russian

I caged a bluebird
in the morning's spring,
as the sun was bright
with glee. I felt gloomed -
a place I've noticed
before.  

I devoured the caged bird.
You slept in the light
of my moon;
you burned in a thousand
fahrenheits.  

I have damaged my soul,
the holy grail of my
home. You shine the light
and no shadow is there.
The miserable doll has
gone to the fair.

Self-portrait 1901 - Paris.
Expressionism Period.
A master stroking away with a paint brush.
The subject: himself.

I walk along side a wall,
my mind goes elsewhere,
my dreams are endless.
The painter I see in the
distance, and wall being
painted. I see nothing but a
blue sky, tears run down
my eyes, doesn't anyone
hear my cries? I am not
at peace with myself,
dreaming again. I open
my ****** eyes, filled
with pity and darkness.
My hands feel awkwardly
wet and at the sight of
my hands runs a fear
of surprise, (what if my
fingers were red?), but
then I exam my fingertips
closely and see that my
fingertips are blue. And
the wall is two blocks away.

With the mere stone-deep faces,
lurking from beyond. I begin to
wonder who shall run and
save me? Beyond the lit moon
searching in the masses of bodies,
but that one moon in search of me.
If you ought to know my name?
Oh, at the time I am nameless.
But beyond the darkness fills
my world. She is not who I long for,
with massive breast and yellowish
decaying teeth. I sighed and thought:
who am I to say that she isn't
beautiful?

Give me water for I may drink.
Give me death for I may die.