Apollo in Parthian Dress

“God knows, who knows? Lord knows, he would know. Sundials galloping backfire, sinful foot in the grave. What am I, who are you? Why does your blood smell so much like candied apples? It’s blue. You’re turning blue, spoiling purple, rotting black. Oh but does this blood, sing. To you. Onto me, from out under him. He knows, I know. Do you? Your flesh, it tastes like spoilt apples. My teeth feel jagged, sharp and long, each a sheathed gladius, ready to plunge into your open heart, a sweet strawberry, ripe and red, white blush on your lips - Ode to me, Bravissimo! I’ve gone madly insane! Don’t let me speak! let me clap and let me scream! sing and love and kill and whatever, else is there to do? Hunt? Oh yeah, I can hunt, I have a bow, I can hunt! Hunt! Hunt! I can go and tear a deer piece by piece, bit by bit, wear its pelt like a loin cloth! And the best part, I can hunt with my sister, Artemis!... Oh… Wait… Why? Why is it, I can’t keep nice things in full? Dear fathers of mine, why make me this way, what fiend bites you so pleasurably?... Tell me, you old man! - Sweetness abound M’ars, into a rottenness you cannot pretend to fathom. Beneath this bittersweet skin, you’ll wither and welt into an unspeaking soul, crying and gazing at the world burn around you. I’ll bruise you, make your fingers turn bright with a chalkish brown. And they’ll climb over your mound, build a castle onto your corpse, if only to say they’re closer to me, slick knife behind a sordid smile, bloody fist shrouded in a leather glove. So hidden, so open, unmoving and yet wavering. Undecided and young, always young - Wail into the night sky, beg me for the sight of Diana. I may just grant you the death you so deserve, nectar glinting in my eye. No warmth will ever light the fire to your cold smoldering soul, not at least the burning I bring onto this world. Call me selfish, call me greed itself and howl furiously against the monster that is cruel unfairness, the grandfather of this world, ever turning, ever going, ever moving forward. Just don’t blame me, don’t say it’s my fault. Why am I to blame, what crimes did I commit? Curse you, Doctor Victor, my one many creator - Gaulman walks into a keep, says it’s his. Where is he? Nowhere, everywhere? Roman, Celt, Goth, Moravian, Parthian. What difference is there, aren’t you all just human, squandering the world brought forth? And isn’t that just cruel, drown the world and let me take the fall, as if you didn’t light the inferno that threatens to consume you all. Insane! Insane! You’re all divinely insane, and I’m the ringmaker, so light me a funeral pyre!
Sing, sing me my song, hymn into the day, as if that makes the monsters of the night go away - They say I sing, that I am song, a song in itself, the grandest of them all. The breath in my lungs, burning and poisonous, is less real than the love you think you bare for yourselves, and then even more true than the peace you preach wildly into the empty nightness. Sing. Sing! She sang, sang high and low all days long! And where is he now!? Down where I wish to be. Because what am I, if not your pawn? Dress me up like a doll, beat me, and then tell me I own you, in every sense of the word. Masochists! Masochists!..... You are all, Sadistic Masochists”

“And I am alone, surrounded by foreign strangers. Tongue biting my teeth, demanding a tribunal. An execution is more than welcome in the face of a lobster court. The only words I know of these Romans, is that of water and mercy. And they have done so well, wasting both, upon the banks of the Euphrates”

- A legionnaire.