Play it slow-
not for romance,
but because the strings are blistered,
and every note splits the sky
with fire.

Stroll through the panic,
it’s routine:
duct tape on the windows,
radio on low,
a list of missing birds
tacked to the wall
like fallen saints.

You said you'd carry me,
but the world’s gone grey,
and the olive tree’s
just smoke now.

There’s no audience left.
Just wind
and its thousand-watt warning.

Still, your spine curves to the rhythm
like a fever dream from Babylon,
hips like warning sirens,
ankles sunk in ash.

I want to understand
what we ruined,
but only at a pace I can stand,
only with eyes closed.

There was a time
we dressed like lovers.
Now it’s mylar blankets
and filtered masks.

We knew the promise;
we broke it anyway,
above it,
beneath it,
inside it.

Someone keeps whispering
about children,
as if hope still blooms
in poisoned soil.

Play it slow,
with bare hands if you must.
But don’t pretend this isn’t a requiem.
Don’t dress it up in velvet or vows.
Just let the music float
and burn,
like everything else.

"Remember, remember,
The 𝘍𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘩 of November:
Gunpowder, treason, plot.

For there is a reason
Why gunpowder & treason
Should ne'er be forgot."

Aye.
Drop all the bawny
And read it right:
One will notice
The exclusion in remembrance
Of plot proper.

What drivel, what rot.

A nursery rhyme,
Meant to lull asleep a populace.
You hear the story
That they were religious nuts,
That was projection.

Not a soul on our side
Was for balmy superstition.

We who was folks of science & virtue,
Philosophy proper was our standard -
What that had been & is corrupt.

Remember the Fifth
And remember his brother;
Two blonde youths,
Two tawny royal lads,
And one whom they slaughtered.

We fought for the expansion of freedoms,
Civil liberties & such.
For the likes of social programs now widely enjoyed -
Schooling, healthcare, and the like.
For not a soul among us to know hunger,
That they might have daily - bread
And the like.

A son named
After a king usurped -
Woodville, or Wideville;
For it is a large world,
But really quite navigable.

And a King who took a new name
In honor of his slain uncle,
D̲i̲c̲c̲o̲n̲ C̲l̲a̲r̲k̲e̲

Once more, where moored,
The only survivor.
Might is nary ever really right.
They too saw that
On the Isle Wight.

This line;
Long & tried,
Persecuted & replanted.
Forevermore,
As it had been before
And doubtless shall be again,
Wearing the verdant festoon.

In Old World, like New;
Truth is always the fashion,
Justice is always the passion.

When Ozzy Osborne died,
The **** store workers didn’t care.
They said, go get your green ******* hippie,
Get out of my hair.
I said isn’t he your savior,
Prince of darkness don’t they say?
He said I told you once already?
Go the hell away

Tuck it in your waistband
Use her charger
Now the tops full of sand
Clogged, pull harder

Stash is dry
but that’s ok
Grandma will give you one of hers anyway
Hold it under your tongue
Don’t let momma smell your breath
They only approve cause it prevents my death

Grey curl of smoke leaves my mouth,
Ashes scrape my throat.
I won´t play it wrong-
Trying to appear strong.

There´s no fire-
Just  the path to end this.
Gladly, I´d be your player,
Between us, fire burns.

Smoke would hiss.
It started-
With lit cigarette.

Your lust like fire. Flames,
at my soul rip. Smoke, like love
through my fingers slip.

The cigarette burns, I watch it fade,
Like the smoke that loops, like the love we made.
Infinity twists in the cold night air,
Mocking the "forever" that led me here.

She’s gone, but I still wear her ghost,
Clinging in nicotine, stitched in my sleeves.
The scent of goodbye lingers the most—
Smoke stains stay, but she had to leave.

I have been a raging fire.
I have been an overflowing cup,
Overflowing with guilt;
I wash it down the sink.
I have been too much for everyone:
Too bold,
Too shy,
Too lustful,
Too innocent.
I poured a bucket of ice on my head
To simmer me down a little bit,
And now that I am freezing,
And I cannot feel the fire no more,
I have met you, the blaze.
And your warmth was burning off my skin,
And it was melting my face off,
And it was too much.
Far too much.
You have given me light and burning warmth,
But I cannot handle the smoke.
I now know how he felt.
I am choking,
So I have left.
I will be too little and too much on my own.
I do not need a spark to jolt me.

I never told you
I don’t like the cigarette smoke
But bitter kisses taste better than ghosts