It was a sad day in 1993 when you went to be with your maker.
You starred with William Hartnell and years later, you starred with Tom Baker.
You starred in seventeen episodes of Doctor Who.
The show became a success partly because of you.
Doctor Who was a fascinating show that was scary.
Millions of people were devastated when you died on the 18th of February.

My buddy just phoned & woke me up
to ask if I wanted to buy some ****;
of course I said hell yes, as I've run out,
but right before that I was having a
nightmare about a Kree dictatorship
taking over America that proceeded to
slaughter 'undesirables'; but as captured
freedom fighters were herded into a
mysterious subway car, one female
officer hustled me off to the side & let
me skate as I realized the state was
hunting down anyone who opposed
their alien rule; there were huge electronic
signs resembling Chuck Close portraits
of the fascist leader & banners proclaiming
the leader w/ propaganda slogans
declaring the futility of resistance;
but I knew we couldn't be stopped
& would prevail eventually although things
looked hopeless at the time; enforced
abortion & genocide making America great
again; I woke up shaking & answered
the call, told my friend I'll be over
in a while but I'll have to shower
& stop shaking from the dream reign
of terror that seemed all too real;
little black girls lying dead; bursts
of machine-gun fire in the public square;
the great leader in suit & tie was about
to give a speech surrounded by armed
guards in black tactical gear;
this was the moment to marshal
our forces (Ice-T was there & the other
detectives from Law & Order SVU &
I realized the dream was inspired by TV,
particularly the coming attractions
for Marvel's Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.)
& assassinate the leader but the state's
surveillance apparatus revealed
our movements & we were surrounded &
rounded up; the others pushed
into the dimly lit transport but as I said,
I was hustled aside & let go unseen;
then I went down a cement spiral stair
that led far below to a sub-basement
bomb shelter where real freaks
had long hidden themselves; pedophiles,
rapists & abusers doing what they do  
& there I broke up a man & his wife
****** a ******* teenage girl & taking her
w/ me I searched for other freedom fighters
b/c we were not all captured
& I wasn't alone; I woke up knowing
we would win one day but still in all...

Everywhere I go.
I get foul looks.
Looks of pity.
None I care for.

"His parents..."
"He's gay?"
Yes.
Yes.

I sit at the television.
Flipping through channels.
The broadcasts.
The audience.

The bruises that mark my skin.
"******* loser."
"Not even going to fight back?"
Are a reminder of my trauma.

I'm friends with the colorbars on the television.
The red, yellow, green and blue.
The black, white and grey hues.
The static that seems to scream my name.

I am left with a single rose.
I don't know where it came from.
Or where it goes.
But it's my rose.

I can't take the beatings any longer.
I'm sorry to her, my best friend through this all.
I can't do this anymore.
I can't do anything.

I engrave my skin.
Line by line.
Until three deep strokes mark my wrist.
I feel dizzy but don't sleep.

She asks me where I've been.
I hide my wrists and smile at her.
She looks at the bruises on my face.
She angrily frowns.

I'm sorry to her, my best friend through it all.
It's just too hard.
I can't hold on.
So I leave you my rose.

The flower beside your bed.
The bright red rose that stained everything.
Crimson gushes from my wrists, from my neck.
It tastes metallic.

I'm happy now.
I smear it all over the TV screen.
Now I can become one with my friends.
Come on, play with me.

I stand tall, smiling manically through a TV screen.
Static amidst the broadcast, what a wonderful scene.

Turn up the volume, I'm showing the death of a nation.
Stand up and yell, dance in formation.

I open my third eye, I can see it all.
Turn around and around, everyone will fall.

They watch with their eyes glued.
No matter what they do, they're all *******.

They sway two and fro.
A telecast promoting vertigo.

I raise a blade to my throat and sing a chorus.
Black chords all around like liquorice.

They stare hypnotised at the television show.
I cut my throat and blood starts to flow.

I open my third eye, I can see it all.
Turn around and around, everyone will fall.

The screen cuts to static. A washed out town.
For a mere moment, I was their king. I wore a crown.

I lay on the floor of the studio, bleeding out.
I hurt them all, my mind has no doubts.

But I smile and laugh, coughing up red.
Those ******* won't forget the things they said.

Television romance

In scripted dialogue
and camera click bait
is this our love story
or can heaven wait?
in the dreams of writers
will love be fore filled
if we become fighters
Will fate yield?
and will the type writer give us that happy ending
as the stage is set and then completed
Will we kiss and get married and die together or will we pretend
That love is merely written in our stars or will we have retreated
from that notion
that can be grown only come from a story we tell ourselves about each other
and that love and devotion
Is merely a set of complex conditions that come from one emotion.

Even though I'm a fan of the classic Doctor Who,
I must say that I'm not a fan of the new.
I wanted and tried to like the new Doctor Who show.
But if people ask me if I love it, the answer will be no.
I grew up watching the Doctor Who classics.
Unlike the new, I thought those episodes were fantastic.
If other people love the new Doctor Who, that is fine and dandy.
But if it comes on my screen, I'll lose my TV because I keep my shotgun handy.
Please don't ask me to like the new Doctor Who or I'll puke.
When it comes to the new Doctor Who, it's something I rebuke.