Lolita, the frigid queen... and I stand alone. The Narcissist

hmmm pains the soul does'nt it to imagine that the person whom you adore is the most incompatible person with you. Well for me I had to lay aside some of my selfish desires and acknowledge the greater good of both parties. of course after great admonishing of myself I have come to the conclusion that Moi Lolita is indeed one whom I would not woo nor should i bother about because of the great contrast in ideals between us both. There of ends the Lolita saga and ushers in a new era of slogging like hell and undisturbed concentration on the battle ahead. 

so here a final poem in tribute to the Lolita saga. 

And so i stand here 

the cold darkness surrounds my green tunic 

and i pull out the cold body 

lay him out on the table 

open the bag 

the body, a freezing mess 

of two eyes one nose and a mouth 

distorted. 

And I take this last look at him 

not family 

not friends 

no one to say goodbye to this man 

and still he hopes for that closure 

strip the body 

naked, hairy, the darkness 

lights up his body 

I live under the light bulb that burns the brain 

incision 

slicing, the body open 

the red words flowing on the table 

poetry of guts and mess 

deeper i cut

there is no soul 

nothing left behind but heart and body 

search search. 

his cause of death was pride.

a human default, a weakness, shallow and yet

pure 

pride is what we stand on, glory and honor 

yet one slip and we go tumbling down the cliff in to the mausoleum 

I am his soul 

the black hearted creature 

the red juice in my hands which one pumped through his heart now 

nothing but to be bagged up and taken away 

away by a stork 

his blood is to be poured into a cup 

conforming to the shape and curves 

the goblet, the holy grail. 

Good friday 

resurrect from the dead? I think not 

die! this passion that i had 

not worthy of me, it is sick and flawed. 

i dissect him, splitting to recreate another man 

another body 

with mine

my hand in his body, connection 

there, his heart, layered with a plastic food wrap 

zip locked and hidden away 

his organs only to be used, 

and we dump this bloody mess six feet under. 

no more i offer 

no more poetry 

no more inspiration 

end it all so i can begin again. 

yes it is a pathetic poem. i know i know. compared to my previous literary genius this is absolutely unacceptable and I agree should be dumped far far away. But writers have their day offs so i guess today is mine. Don't be prudish about it, no no it is sick and stupid. If you really hated this then just go away and don't come back !