The state of art.

I’m about to write a poem

about

The Fucking King.

I’ll make it sound like music

condition reason through listening

the ringa ding ding

of his keys when he comes at your door

makes your dick a bit thicker when his hand’s on the doorknob

makes you wanna smile

but you don’t ‘cause he’s lurking

the big cock tease, the charms of it all

the will to surrender

under The Fuking King.

Tell me, Sir

Please. Tell me.

Is it always about the

"you could do

so much better" issue?

I used to think I knew some things

Now I believe

I'm not following

So please

Tell me, Sir.

See,

I used to be one of your regular

slaves for the symbols

(they gave all things weight)

-not to the slaves

but to the symbols.

Throughout time

a constant

weaving

memory of all

one single positive

literature

How's faith one book?

how's hope one love?

How's fate one death?

How's love one hope?

I guess I know

I have Myself

to blame

(have you not

taught me

well about this?!)

Carrying those symbols

around like

an impossible house

a reluctant hero

a dead siamese

How could you hold those things?

So mine. So undeniably mine.

And right when I

Started thinking

their meanings could cling

to some truth

somehow deliver their weight

to transform some/how? reality

I realized

I could never get

the lightning of your face

right.

Could I?

Embarrasing.

I imagine faces of an imaginary crowd

to offend myself

to remark the weight of symbols

how once this weight was my ally

now pins me in shame

tell me,

Sir

How could we

let this

happen

to me?

Once upon a time

ridiculously enough

could have been yesterday

but these

are the things

I don't know

anymore

And I can't believe

now

like in time,

When you're around, Sir.

I was looking for nothing

those symbols were just there

not a burden

but a sibling

a second chanel

of consciousness

if it pleases you more

to think like that.

Please,

don't say the words

or say them all

I want you

I want

you

to be

you

I want

nothing

at all.