The King is dead.

Pretentious brainfeces from a mediocre poet in dark medieval times. A proper burial is never complete without the dead complaining endlessly in their graves. Very well, let them breathe their fire of deception and let us be consumed in their ember of lies and slapstick antiques. They may have walked surface of the moon, but the thought of the Sun leaves them shivering like petrified childeren. Feed us, oh template of hope, Solaris. I shall erect an odly shaped temple in your glorious honour, with all irony aside. May I burst in disguist or just lay here to rot in my own putrid mammal stench if it does not meet your modern standards.. Just promise me to carry my dead corpse to the highest of mountains, away from these citys of lust and sin. My brain feels nosious. Sick of having to deal with too many variabels. It might start vomitting poetry out its empty skull at any second now. Forget silence, these walls have eyes! Meanwhile the correct numbers dance like heathens around a sacred fire. No truth too be found in these jungles, just blind paradise. Or green hell if you must. Please tell me its all mine. At least the pleasure is. Like the dubious extasy one feels during a long walk on a sunset boulevard on a journy to the end in a nazi deathcamp. At the same rate as only Sunday mornings come in their flawless ways. Cyanide and fresh croissants. Will you sexually please me in the name of whatever god you believe in, this day and age? Just remember your efforts will be greatly rewarded, before you return to the abstract landscape you were once conceived. -Pierre 41.