I got asked a question today.
Leading word, Why. In my
experience the only significant way
to annoy me is to ask Why,
Why do you stick around Society,
If you hate the sleaze, the sly,
The devious, and how, they ask,
Aren’t you one of them? Why?

Lower your senses, you swine.
You think my opinion makes a scrap
of difference to the way they drink their wine,
eat their hor d’ouvres, and kneecap
each other with stilettos on the parquet
dancefloor, well it doesn’t. At all.
Nor does it matter at all what I say,
I can babble and blast and cat-call
however I want, it takes more than that to sway
those ballgown-suffocating people.
And face it – you know I’m right,
Society’s nose is turned up from the urchins to the church steeple,
and from the Mid-day and the Mid-night,
It matters shit to them, what time they gather to intermingle,
And to spit and lie when their opponent is out of sight,
They’ve not got the pride to open their rusty mouth,
to spill their curses to my face, well!
I do not offer them the courtesy of my tongue.

A scrawl on a wall told me to follow
what I’m good at, and not what I like,
which to some days I regret. A hollow
life protrudes through, a heart-intersecting-spike,
But yet I live comfortably when I learn to swallow
that damned pride I desire, and I strike
the Society’s rooms with my presence. To recieve
the little titbits of what those ladies know I crave,
I can put up a lie, I spend my whole life to deceive,
what stops me from doing it now? The tongue
between my teeth, and the taste of blood is my relief
from this little violin horror show! Begone!
I have had enough!

Enough of the second-eyed stares,
Time enough to remind you not a single one of you cares!
Open your lockets of your most dear,
Look how you’ve betrayed them, shed a damned tear!
Don’t make me dance yet another waltzing tune
with a hand on heart and rhythm in unison,
Sooner I be dead, dead and gone,
Than hear the tap of one-two-three and three-two-one;
Sooner I hear the click of a snuff box close,
Than be able to see up every bloody nose
of the men who toss their heads back and let their laughter roar,
You can hear the mighty bellow from across the floor!
Sooner I see the light in their eyes fade,
As I expose this expensively-uniformed charade;
Sooner I kill myself than suffer more of this stuff,
Let met to the middle of the floor, let me shout my, “Enough!”

And then…
When, in the silence, the sound of a pin…
Might just – just – be heard…
I realise I truly shouted my word.
Not only that, my mouth keeps going,
Slandering the night, my tongue is sowing
the seeds of my expulsion from this little clique,
Well, I didn’t say I wanted to stay in it,
But oh! how they stare! With their illustrious eyes,
Like molten orbs, their gazes is my prize,
Forget the sordid poem of love on my desk at home,
The downfall of a God! In me!
They advance, hands a-grasp,
Some Men faint, some Ladies gasp,
Eager to toss me far out of the door,
Come on, simpletons, throw me more!
Into the bushes of fungus statement,
Over the fountain, onto the pavement,
My sleeves are torn, revealing skin,
Hello, true horror lurking within
your ugly Society, I knew it was true!
You’re nothing without me!
But I’m something without you!

IV: The True Freedom – Care [Lull]

III: The True Freedom – Need [Lull]

Caring – about people, about things, about life – is an act of maturity.
– Tracy McMillan


Truly passionate individual,

Whose own spirit drifts on unaccomplished,

By even the smallest of pinprick silences,

And whose eyes – forever glowing

from the heat of their unrewarded generosity and certainty –

will one day rot, just as all ours will, within the ground.


Just as mine will glaze with each step,

Concrete – to dirt – to concrete – to wasps’ nest –

Again and again –

Seeing the helpless and hungerful traveller,

His travel halted by the unquenchable hunger of starvation,

And I do not extend my hand,

My eyes will rot, just as all ours will, within the ground.

Just as the eyes with passion will.


So! -I hear. What, pray you tell, is the point?

To be so blunt and disfigured within yourself,

And to hold onto nothing more on your deathbed than the fact that

you were a Good Person on arrival. So

what? Go on your way, sitting patiently in the waiting room that is

Purgatory, a place you so drastically believed in, which,

of course,

is irrational.

I will continue on, isolated during my own tar-stricken death,

knowing I’ve done nothing but Ruin, and yet our fates are the same.

Cold, unflattering earth upon our round faces, bruised by death and patience.


So! -I hear. What, pray you tell, is the point?

Here is the point.

Be rid. I have spoken, often, to take away and never to give.

But to give is to do nothing. My sister is half of me.

To attempt, to even admit to trying to salvage some

goodness within herself, it is false. So, I urge her,

The words never leaving my head, never casting a bitter taste

to my grey tongue, Be rid. I’d whisper.

Follow your half. Learn to bask in yourself and to reject humility.

For no matter who winds up hating you

No one will hate you as much as yourself. And no

one will accept you as much as the earth to your body when you

inevitably fall from your rightful place in the Aurora and into

the fresh casket I will prepare for you. I will not die until you do.


Yes. I care, I care too much. Enough to destroy whole corners.

But you! -sweetness that you are, do not. Should not.

Begin when you awake. Cast yourself around the world

always stepping in the sunlight,

and never take your eyes off the moon. Beggars

will be invisible to you, corporations no more than

mere cancerous lumps as you sweep on by,

avoiding them. Like all. Twist yourself enough,

and leave me far below as you screw yourself in

like a jigsaw. This missing shade of navy,


Casting the most beautiful shadows on the hideous landscape

as you lie your serene head down on the velvet

not even whispering a good-night to your protector.

Then I will know I have succeeded.


Awake. Sister.

Cast yourself around the world.

Always stepping in the sunlight.

And never taking your eyes off the moon.


V: The True Freedom -Material [Lull]

III: The True Freedom – Need [Lull]

II: The True Freedom – Time [Lull]


They might not need me; but they might. I’ll let my head be just in sight;
a smile as small as mine might be precisely their necessity.

-Emily Dickinson


Basic humanity –

Conservative, but,

Without the main heat of the warm and

Fulfilling gaze of the Needee,

the Needy pushes on.

Priceless. Always and forever,

Searching for that same strand, hopeless tempt-

-ation of spirit and fortune, candle

with frozen wick, waiting for the flame.

As are we. Just breathing hard enough to

keep our heads above the tide, the wall, even,

Just for a chance to be given unflattering attention.

Let us ignore this. I’ll make her sturdy.

Un-reliant. On anybody. Let us be rid,


Of Need.


We exist, and exist together – me and her – and

never does the time pass. We – me and her-

Both young,

Both old, simultaneously, Remembering nothing

of the forgotten riches of agony of memory,

So much so I’ve forgotten what her shoulder-blades

Look like.

I do not need to know. I raise her chin

as she sleeps and cast her face, at peace,

Into my wet concrete mind. Preserved. Not

remembered. But preserved, certainly.

To leave her now would be insanity.

I will remove all needs from her,

She will become more by becoming less,

Such as ice fills the space water could

never reach. I remove the shoulder of

her nightdress. I can be slow. No heat,

No softness, coarseness, no Need for the

suffocating pinkness of the cotton skin.

I can be slow. In this.


Soon. I will create a new woman.

A new woman will be created. Soon.

She will be a duchess of the sky, cast naked,

Young as blossom but old as granite,

Suspended between the constellations of the

astrologers’ imaginations and the astronomers’ charts,

She will both create and aspire,

And walk her own way around the dark lilac sky,

A dancing camellia on the rippling aurora surface,

As the midnight waterfalls of thunder give her something

to dance to.

A marchioness, champion. Visible in the perpetual twinning

of Night and Day, above and below the sky, below and above the earth,

My creation. My sister, my ultimate, my polished stone. Who wants

for nothing. Who needs nothing. Who desires nothing. Whose

morals are straight as a helix, whose regards and

appreciation is aimed only inwards, no need for

approval, no more, not now she is and is not the sky.

No need for a name, no need for the gaze of strangers,

No need for the warmth of others. She is the ultimate,

The queen,

Head of my pride,

Below the skin,

Un-relenting, Un-reliant, Un-unreal,

Dearest naked cherub,

Splendid absolution of perfection,

Girl beneath my palm.


IV: The True Freedom – Care [Lull]

VIII: Scrawl

VII: Scrawl


Found scrawling from inside my grey and dying mind.








IX: Scrawl

I: The True Freedom – Memory [Lull]

My sister’s phonograph lies in the corner,

Untouched. Unused, worthless, beyond repair,

Yet she will not part with it. If I could, to break

my sister’s heart, I would move the ‘graph.

Needless and worthless clutter, a life unknown.

How the suffocation becomes worthless if glance at it too long.

The phonograph does not play,

It will never play,

But the memories, they’re fresher.

I am ultimate, a memory within her own,

If I was to wreck the ‘graph,

I’d pass right through.


So let’s be rid of the memories first,

A harsh tie from the real world,

To keep the escapism real,

To keep the escapism breathing,

To silence the outside. Only living

on the inside – yet, without the memory

of her anchoring phonograph,

Who will she be?

To erase, to love, to even kill, I’d be rid of all memory.

Silence myself in the deep fug of thought,

But with no memories to penetrate my world.

We will be rid of memories first.


Grasping hold, taking the corner of a

blank white page, to turn it,

I grasp the phonograph’s edges.

This is the first place to begin, as this memory

means nothing to me.

I raise myself, and sounds fall,

Out of the broken phonograph snout,

To make noise on the brick floor.

Are these part of the memory? To pick up and erase,

A dark part of myself. It means nothing.

I raise my sister’s phonograph,

Up high, as if I will put it away,

Lay it on a shelf for the memory to fade,

But I carry it through. My mind –

Loosened by the choice –

Feels lighter every step.


My sister’s phonograph no longer will keep

her own spirit tied. I have freed her into life.

Disposing of the long-ago object,

The feeling of a previous existence,

Plays harsh upon my hands.

The phonograph is getting heavier.

How? – the sound fell from its base,

The sound was never heavy. Yet

each step sharpens my memory,

To the point of hurting me. But

I must grip the phonograph tighter. The loss

of a life for the thrill of a memory,

The dull watercolour sweep or thought,

It lasts for a few seconds. There’s not

a world in her head. There’s not a world

in mine. There is only a huge gap,

Where our lives stopped.


The phonograph is weighing me down,

Each pace a dark gasp,

An expulsion of putrid memory from my

own selfish head. Mercy.

Deflate and dispose, phonograph, I am the reality.

A small piece, a slick oil-paint at best,

Instead of this airy watercolour,

That your memory provides. Shift the weight.

One hand, pressed upon, the other, pain,

Twinned with my sharpening memory.

Twisted agony again. But – I could stop,

I could stop walking,

Give into the memories of my sister,

Give into the memories of me,

And stop walking –

But to stop, to give up my life,

I will not waste my sister’s life. I will

free her. Piece by piece, pull this reality

apart and free her. And I will follow,

The walls gone, the freedom unchained,

But it has to start somewhere.

I pick up the phonograph again.


II: The True Freedom – Time [Lull]