The Duke

This is copypasted from an MSN conversation and edited poorly to fit a blog post. Apologies. I want to keep it, though.


There was once a city, populated entirely by happy people.
Everyone was happy, all the time, and the city ran incredibly efficiently.
One day, a stranger came to the city, and the people told him how wonderful it all was.
But he began to notice something...strange.
Everyone moved the same way, talked the same way, even acted the same way!
And they all wanted him to see the Duke.
So away he went, to see the Duke of the happy city.
So he went to see the duke, and the duke was a nice, smiling man who wasn't like the others, who laughed on his own and moved on his own and seemed to be his own person, on the whole.
And he wore the strangest crown.
It was bright blue! And made of bone.
And it reflected the light in the strangest way.
And the stranger (who was a young and bold man) asked the duke why everyone in his city behaved so strangely.
And the duke smiled.
And laughed. And told him not to worry.
And pat him on the head.
And sent him on his way.
And the young man didn't like this in the slightest.
So, late that night, when all of the happy people were asleep, the young man stole out of the rooms in which he was staying.
And do you know what he did?
He scaled the walls of the Duke's castle!
He just up and climbed them!
And he stole into the Duke's rooms in the dead of night.
And he saw the Duke, fast asleep in his bed, and he saw the crown sitting on the bedside table.
And do you know what he did then?
Can you guess?
Are you sure?
The young man was a bit cheeky.
So he put the crown on his head!
Right on his head, as if he was the Duke!
And do you know what happened then?
I bet you don't.
The crown began to hum, quietly!
It was a magic crown, you see.
And it made a humming sound!
And the young man thought, what a funny humming crown!
And then something else happened. For you see, this crown was magical in a very special way.
And the young man began to feel unsteady on his feet.
Because the crown began to work the magic it was built for.
And then at last the young man realised why everyone in the city was so happy.
You see, this crown was made of a very special metal that absorbed emotion. A very special, magic metal, that would absorb the emotions of everybody around it, as long as it was worn on the head of somebody! And this crown was absorbing the emotions of an entire city!
It was absorbing all the sorrow,all the suffering, all of the tragedy and fear and petty loathing and disgust in the entire city, and it was devouring them and distilling them and destroying those vile emotions before they could poison the city!
And do you know what it did then, with the ruins of these emotions?
It distilled them. Concentrated them. And then fed them, in a steady, steady flow, to the wearer of the crown.
As long as the crown was worn, it would free an entire city from suffering - and inflict all of that pain, all of that horror, all of that hate on the wearer.
And the young man stood there with tears flowing down his face as he felt all of that sorrow, all of that horror, sitting in that innocent crown of bone.
And he thought about the Duke, and how the Duke had met him smiling, and laughing, without a care in the world.
And he thought about the man who bore the weight of an entire city's fucked up thoughts every day of his life and could still smile and sleep at night, because he knew that he was doing good.
And the young man quietly removed the crown from his head.
Set it on the bedside table.
And slit the Duke's throat from ear to ear.
And stole out into the night.
And that's the end of the story.

Glistening Sound

I'm running out of ways to name these things. So I'm going to make a habit of naming them by their first line whenever I'm at a loss.

Glistening sound,
And sight all around.
Three sixty degrees,
Of pleasure for free.

The liquid goes down,
And we'll hit the town
So hard that it breaks,
And you'll try not to shake.

Bars full of lights,
And fantastic sights,
And he tipped me a wink,
And he bought me a drink.

And we'll dance on the tables,
And we'll sing while we're able,
You'll stumble, trip, fall.
And I'll see it all.

The liquid goes down,
As we hit the town,
So hard that we break,
It's a thirst we can't slake.

Glistening sight,
And sound at the light,
Three sixty degrees,
Of bliss, all for me.

There's fragments of glass,
And you're out on your arse,
But you're feeling just fine!
And the feeling is mine.

And you'll give me a kiss,
It's a hit and a miss.
As the liquid goes down,
And there's bliss all around.

Sleet

Well, time to put pen to paper again.
Which is a retarded expression because I barely put pen to paper anymore. There is no real joy in it. It was a tactile pleasure, once upon a time, dragging a pen across a crisp sheet of paper, thoughts slowly flowing out onto the page and out of my brain. Or even better, a really sharp, dark lead pencil. Bliss.
Not so much, these days. When I say put pen to paper, I mean sit in the dark and sleet my thoughts onto the screen. Little comets, spurting out from behind my eyes and onto the glowing screen. Normally, anyway. Normally, this kind of process is pretty close to an orgasm. Build up, build up, build up, hold it for a moment - RELEASE. Satisfaction. Tonight I'm working hard at it. I feel as though I'm getting worse and worse at letting it out onto the page (there it is again, page) but if I don't try, I'll go insane.

So. Where are we at the moment? What's sleeting around in my brain, causing me pain? Ugh. You'd think I'd be better at this - and you'd think I'd have the sense not to complain about it. I was introduced to the concept of 'first world problem' recently, and I must say I'm a horrible example. Can't write a blog post? Angst. Lose my phone? End of the world. So I sit in the dark with this hangover - one that I earned, wholeheartedly and completely earned. That's the fuck of it, isn't it? No hangover without drinking for it - but that's the wrong way around, reverse it. No drinking without the hangover afterwards. You've always got to pay the piper, and that's not just with drinking. That's with everything. I lose my phone, I have a threesome. Utter satisfaction and utter frustration - at least, in the only ways I know how to experience them. And you have the gall to tell me that there isn't karma in the universe? Well, you probably don't have the gall to tell me that. You'll probably sit there in silence and maybe chuckle every now and then if I prove amusing, and take nothing way from anything I say because hey, this is clearly a performance. This is clearly useless. Just a hungover kid bragging about sex and bitching about his phone.

The sleeting just stopped. That's...unexpected.

I live forever.

I live forever.

I inhale, and civilizations are born. Nations rise, babies slither from the womb, a rush of limbs, life and love. Eyes meet across a crowded room. Inhibitions are cast aside. A gasp, a grin, a giggle. A handshake that took years to come together. A union and a promise. Hope. Great riches. A blazing trail across the sky.

I exhale, and cities topple. A crippled man breathes his last, alone and unloved. A mother sighs and wonders what's to be done with her children. A stool is kicked away from forlorn, dour shoes. A puff of dust from the crash site. The world is bathed in fire and destruction. Gods themselves are murdered, and their killers in turn are struck down. You are all struck down.

I live forever. The world is blessed when it is drawn into my lungs, held close to my heart. I exhale, after taking what I need, and the world crumbles into nothing. It is lifted in the taking and is forgotten and abandoned in the leaving.

It's a metaphor, you idiot. I don't breathe in the world. I just breathe in lives. I suppose I'm a vampire, in a way. In another way I'm not. Vampires are pathetic, really. They limit themselves to blood, drinking it. As if feeding is the way to satisfy an immortal appetite - in controlling people, seducing them. I have seen a million, million people cavort through their lives from cradle to grave, their flesh melting from their bones almost as soon as they come into existence, birth and death melding seamlessly together in a horrific display of atrophic decay - at least, a display that would horrify, had I not seen it enacted a million, billion times, with the knowledge that it would come a million, billion times more. Everything passes, but I endure.

I may live forever, but I only have one stomach, only have one cock. I could have a million swimming pools, but I can only bathe in one. I could order fish and chips from a hundred back-alley shops and still be sated in one serving. I could have my pick of any lover on the planet, any lover in history, and still be sated after an evening (at best!). How is anyone supposed to slake immortal appetites when the body only has so much capacity for satisfaction? I have seen every sunrise and sunset since this rock began to orbit this insignificant star, and I will see every one until the star itself ends, and still I will endure - but I gain nothing from the addition. There is naught to be seen in your millionth sunset that you could not have seen in your first, or your second. There is nothing that is greater for being viewed infinite times. And yet, I am infinite. Feeding is not the answer.

I inhale. I exhale.
I will never stop.
Somehow, I think they would be worth more if I knew that they would end eventually.
Somehow, I wish that feeding had meaning.
Somehow, I know that mortality was all that was keeping everything together.
Somehow, I will stop.
I will stop.
Stop.

I live forever.

Young Fool

You're living in sin.
You'll pay this price eventually.
You've got nothing to lose? You've got nothing to prove.
Sincerest apologies, but I'll frighten you out of this.
Don't cry, young fool.
Young fool, that's the rule.
We can't allow you to quiver,
Allow them to shiver,
To let the fear in their bellies sleep and swell,
To lock your emotions to motions that grasp,
To condemn everything by your actions to hell,
To grip and to strangle, to love that last gasp.
Young fool.
Superior, inferior, hands held high and eyes downcast.
You should have known this couldn't last.
The answer is in there, you stare down the barrel,
The gun may not fire, but your sword's for hire -
Not anymore. Not anymore.
Shoulder blades sharpened like knives,
And knives in your eyes,
Shooting daggers,
Loving lives.
You'll pay this price eventually,
Young fool.