Draping a well-worn shawl that was once a vibrant purple over his tired shoulders,
the pale skinned, grey eyed writer hunched over the battered typewriter
He knew for a second that he was indeed God
Not in any bastardised sense of the word but the truest form
He click-clacked at the keys and made words as if he were the first magician,
tricking the masses with wizardry of the most absurd kind
and preaching his word for them to follow
From the pictures of his mind he tapped away,
creating great monolithic structures and clusters of characters,
each with defined personal traits
Mere seconds before ink blotched paper they existed in no universe, and now,
now they were defined, realised and serving a purpose
God truly does love all his children
Alas we know not of who God truly is
Each group would have you believe a new story,
each sect within those groups would differentiate between themselves
and we are no more enlightened
You see, God is real but only as far as we are real

I
There was once a room. In that room was a deadened fireplace,
beautiful in its marble stature
In front of that lonesome cavity stood a sturdy but small round table,
barely enough room for the slightly oversized candle that sat atop it
Beside the table were two tall sturdy wooden chairs
On one chair sat a tall thin blonde haired man, the other was occupied by an equally tall, equally thin black haired man
The candle was lit and burnt mightily but still failed to light more than two feet in any direction
This meant that neither man was completely visible to the other
Perhaps they intermittently appeared to each other as they adjusted their position in their sturdy seats or as the candle flickered from a phantom breeze
The rest of the room, while rather large, was fairly nondescript, and even less distinguishable when the brazen darkness saturates the walls like a plague on a nation

The black haired man stifled a yawn. “I concur” uttered the blonde haired man.

II
The black haired man leaned back on his chair and rocked forward
The blonde haired man leaned back on his chair and rocked forward
The black haired man leaned further back on his chair and rocked forward
The blonde haired man leaned further back on his chair,
he fell backwards and split his head open

III
There was once a room. In that room was a deadened fireplace,
beautiful in its marble stature
In front of that lonesome cavity stood a sturdy but small round table,
barely enough room for the slightly oversized candle that sat atop it
Beside the table were two tall sturdy wooden chairs
On one chair sat a tall black haired man, the other chair was empty
The rest of the room, while rather large, was fairly nondescript, and even less distinguishable when the brazen darkness saturates the walls like a plague on a nation

The black haired man stifled a yawn.

I saw you, and your children days before
Your son's stomachs were distended and your girls were emaciated
The track marks on your arms betrayed your neglect
Pungent family, poor and alone in society
I saw you today, with bacon in your trousers
My boss saw you too
Undignified the way he forced your hand
and you protested the soap in your pockets also
I see you everyday in the faces of my family
and I see you in my dreams, falling from Capitalist trees
I was told to stand guard of the door, in case you ran
I wished you had, I really do
Would you have ran if you'd have known me?
For I would have stepped aside and held the door

Fifteen days in that prison, I spent
Laborious in pursuit of pennies for a millionaire
While I scrape the bare minimum wage
Fifteen days because I'm a good worker
Fifteen days with no break
Fifteen pounds worth of soap and food
Stuffed into a filthy tracksuit
For your family, as they starve
and they continue to pang as you are processed
The police uphold the law, but I often disagree
What would they do, to feed their family?

Fiery orange hairs slick with diamonds
Palms outstretched for a tender touch
Oh stable stalk that holds you tall
And your heaven sent pungent scent
Fresh cut grass of the farmer's field
or the hill I would sit upon before school
with you, sweet Mary Jane

For you were love when love was disparate
And you were there when I was desperate
A comforting touch from my budding queen
Waking me from my daze in the mid afternoon
With an heir of liberation from my solitude
So I shall reap my crops, with love for you
And savour your taste as I lay in your luminescence

Dear friend of my Mother and Father
Joint matrimony of the empathetic soul
You and I as he and she, earthly glory
and your all encompassing embrace
For I am but a lovelorn soul,
and you were always there for me

Only several days before we met, I had killed myself several times
Each one for a sin on my soul, repentant death of the ego
And the trees on my grave were hung in joyous apathy
You were neither man nor woman, yet a person all the same
and your hair was smiling

The objective Slavic King was foreboding but intrigued
and you pained to be affectionate
I feigned the aptitude to appease the master
While you danced around the wizard in robes
but the children had no faces

The spectrum gave way to the memories of childhood despair
The dying chair and the wooden man that beat against dun windows
Mossy branches were groping hands that felt the insecurities
and I lay bare in mourning winter air

Still those whistles sing for fallen queens that litter stray beds
The misguided steed in the blacksmith's den, asking for another fix
and the inanimate table that miraculously walked away
They were all there in my vivid nightmare
But you were safe in the rubber box built by nimble giants
and your mother cried alkaline tears

It was cursed pain that you felt
But the horses of your marriage fled for the fields
and you were left there in Novosibirsk
With a silver coin pressed to your chest
And I, lay lonesome in Saratov
'neath the blackening skies
On a wall in Kryty Square

She told me to do what made me happy
I laughed and she looked confused
For what would make me happy
Would break her heart in two

My life has no end in sight
My end would leave her bereft
Though I took her words to heart
So I sit and plan my death

Purple velvet curtains mimicked purple proses of long dead authors
Auteurs and Anglophiles expressing desire, the desire for Desiree
and she danced, she danced.

Christie too, she danced, she danced
Kick, snare, kick kick, snare, she danced rhythmic hypnosis
Daddy watched from the bar, banal dance of the bandits

And Katzarina, baby in the back, dances for love
Fatherless child begging attention
Dance no more my dear soul, for you deserve more

Lecherous lounge acts, the men in ties
Order another round, girls gather around
Please me, dance for me, ****** and bashful
The purple velvet reminds them of mother

Cruel institutions that decay our psyche
Patriarchal pesticides in pasta and porridge
On the side of the mango, matriarchal monotony
Oh stop this pretentious pillaging of poor prostitutes
You are but a boy at the gates of existence, fear not, for the father and the mother shall hold your hand in the heavenly harem.