Long Live the King

Long Live the King

A Poem by arhorn

After a poet came to my college, I kind of wanted to try his style of writing for myself.


Long live the king. A Small boy stands near the fence of great wishes. Never a book or face with wide eyes and great pain looked upon his bright crown. Upon the castle there lay a woman of radiance. Up close only the twisted soul and pale and fake. Curled hair embracing. Drowning her. And twain spoke as if he wanted not to be understood. And then there was electricity. And the drums of those drums. I knew they were coming for me. And a stream of consciousness. A heart of Darkness. I know I will take his place at the head of the table of God but there is a place for me in the creampuff stadium with many pencils and spectacles. Upon the water there will be group of bridge playing old ladies cheating like the children they are. Love stays on that wire and the grass swallows the world in its perfect order. A whale lands in the bricks and never have I seen such a competent hardhat. Never have I seen such a boat in the tear of the smallest child of a newly formed loaf of drywall and red drums upon the brightest darkness in the Tree of Knowledge. I see only bamboo stories. The Tree of Life will appear once more and the whole of creation will curse its return. And again the world will live and rot and reach perfect hands. Perfect mud pies to fix the sky in a tingle of a university. From the lowest most evil beauty to the moderation of the masses of a snowflake. Dead leaves fall into the tears of a thousand tires. Happiness comes to each who accepts the word of the great bar. The great peanut will only rule with a rod of carbonite. The wind will bring all things here. Bill Cosby will make the Justice of the East. Curls will be the pinnacle of intelligent invention. Always will there be a pond for the monolith. Only today will there be a chance for all suffering to ride to the oven and feed the world so that everyone would be satisfied in the warmth of plaster and the truth. Kant will grow from the earth in the great farms of the Sahara and Achilles will adopt a stone. And only then will the end of time come to the insignificant speck. Everything matters to almost every single moderate cubic being of roof and unity. The beat the beat only makes the tents with more polka-dots and greater complete universality. Only where we see the door do we see the curry all over the floor. Night brings security of the loss of direction. Welcome to my castle the boy king said. Thank you for taking such great care of it.  

© 2012 arhorn

Author's Note

Obviously, I want to cut it shorter. Let me know what you liked and didn't like. Also, should I put the finished product in stanza, or should it remain in prose?

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Added on March 11, 2012
Last Updated on March 11, 2012
Tags: stream of consciousness



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