The nights are long drawn and tired.

Stretched beyond all imagination by the

Time Black Hole.

Hawking's got nothing for me.

I can feel the tiredness of pacing

not in my legs but in my hands.

Palms straight for-word just like old times.

Aching on the outside like a jesus Idol.

They aren't going to crucify me,

I'll just suffocate anyway.

Pressures of this and that. the other things.

antsy sweat fidgets like mind tears from the temple.

I tried to find the literal elephant in the room;

only to find my book burned.

Hopefully they'll burn me too.

They can use the inferno from the pages

to light my parchment skin.

But the papers are doused before

I can use them to light my wicker.

All that good for nothing sweat.

Ruining my plans.

I'll just go exploit the thick.

naivety is the prefered slushy of my virtue.

Too naive for polatics.

The plan is for me to scratch my message

into their skins with a pointy stick.

Might as well push them so they'll notice me

Such childish delights can be unseen with a wave of hand.

((((((Author notes:

This is what Happens when I have nightmares about becoming the prime minister as the oxyclean man.))))))