monologue

Playwright

Speech can be a masterpiece of artistic creation,

Elegant calligraphy, decorated with the odd heart-flutter flourish,

Fingers working, dancing, pounding on ivory keys, 

The smoke from a handsome mouth drifting through mahogany halls

As though from a fired gun. Dust settling after an earthquake. 

 

I cast myself in my plays, 

Too immersed to retract from the action, 

Too selfish to watch another fertilise the seeds, 

Too inflated to see my words applauded to another, 

"That's the theatre!" "That's life!"

 

People care little for Mona herself, 

Only for her master, his talent unbound. 

We praise not sunflowers, but their gardener insane. 

Shakespeare was lucky, the devil of devices, 

But the new world has eyes, not ears. Not brains!

 

I cannot see the target but for dazzling light, 

Heat and heart working furiously to fuel those pretty-penned words, 

I'm dashing or thrashing, whichever is box-office smashing, 

The multi-skilled wonder man of paper-in-hand, 

I love the stage and I love my plays, 

In most, I play the devil.

How Soon?

Folder: 
Prose

If I said I knew what I was doing I’d be lying, because maybe sanity is overrated or maybe I was interrupted from life from the very second I was conceived in my mother’s womb. I driving in the hour of twilight and the affairs I had along the way were my only pure daylight. The men, they were all nothing until I met him; quiet, yes. But so enigmatic, prismatic, and most of all charismatic; how cliché: a story about a boy who loved a boy with his whole time-lost heart.

I had always gotten the feeling that if I had to choose between the arcane men and myself death would seem much more fitting than a world desolate of mystery. 

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