Rattle on
And do so backwards
In the insular hole
Strangle lo’
To and fro, in herds
Build for me a pole

Wail along
And do so sweetly
In my crooked glyphs
Sail strong
To lands discreetly
A flintlock at your hip

Walk across
And do so sideways
In a tiled oasis
Count the cost,
To hands that play
Deal out epistasis

Swim away
And do so upwards
In a veiled monsoon
Drown the day
In Carinae
Seek its vagrant moon

"Democracy is the lesser of all evils."
Says the Liberal.
The Libertarian.
The Corinthian.
The Macedonian.
The Farrier.
The Squire.
The Stoic.
The Astronomer.
The Ornithologist.
The Eschatologist.
The Augur.
The Retiarius.
The Hoplite.
The Centurion.
The Governor.
The General.
The Senator.
The Orator.
The Assassin.
The Emperor.
The Ferryman.

Translucent, red traffic light
Belongs so comfortably
No one made a fuss over its colour
Just an instinct for the shade
The perfect pigment
No hustle, no alarm
Being the man who ponders this
Am I not allowed the breeze or the brevity?
Are we blessed to fidget the cigarette?
Cursed to be tense
I imagine a mellow, white man
Prancing on a set of traffic lights
Naturally pristine and silky
He plays in an explorative band
Rock and roll on scalpels
So smooth, that breathing
Not a single itch
I’m going to achieve such a feat
One day
I’ll be a queen *****

Who knows where I’ll be headed
And who I’ll be after that
To my sole credit
I laid a man down on the tracks

I’m tired in my stare
Strides hurt a great deal
Nobody’s hired to care
Pride can’t afford a meal

If Consolation Day comes
I won’t know my way home
My tonsils are flayed
My lungs are made of stone
I’ll crow

My thoughts have become excruciatingly apparent, achingly transparent. The soil-scanned pores are presented in all their vainglory. To my eyes, I am left stifled and cruel, undeserving of the fruits of my godless labour.

Don’t have a laugh now, ******. This is no entry of any sort, nor am I looking for divine affirmation in the ink that I lay down. My umbilical cord to the heavens is severe  and grotesque, buried under the soot of history’s accords (abandoned scripts, all they are).

This room is cold but I am not, you see? I used to be the stoic; the unabashed abuser of generosity. My shoulder used to hold seven reigns by its lonesome. I should do so well to be fragile, much like I am now. Is it not easier to love this way? Parsimonious as my kindness may be, is it not so pure at the moment? I believe I love, greater than I ever have before.

I should. I shall not sacrifice the gilded mechanisms inside my head for love, no. Perhaps I will love, though superficially. However facetious my care is, is that not what love is portrayed to be? A lover is soon made a loser, for their misfortune or complacence. Stay my hand, dear. Do not let me morph into that lover for you. We do not deserve such a prognosis, not even the thought of one.

The sky shifted out of excitement, malforming into the menacing child of blue and indigo. It inspired the apex of one’s thoughts, yet promised stoic impotence; a blasé response. Besides a burning Nissan, I was perplexed. Something taught me that I should be emoting, and the glove should be reading into my vortex of encumbrance. If no one acknowledges that I must be freed, shall I retain the visage of a captive? I am but a stifled, trembling man.

What can I be now?
What must I be?
I have lost you, dearest
Though you’ve been gone for a while
What I shall be
To the world’s sea
I will be so for you
Dearest

I will become a figure
Lest I perish
For I am sure you were equally dire
Who else could teach me the dance of a lyre?
And the hymn of a quire?
A debilitating devotion
I have no obligations to myself
Not anymore

Only my labours of love
Will be shown to the world
All because of you, my love
You have given me the reigns
Which I crafted by my lonesome
Then, the nations will extend
To the far reaches of a forlorn nebula
And I will meet you there, soon