Base Court

The unruliness that comes with adding 'regality' and 'kingliness' to one's list of apparent virtues is exactly the kind of thing a man must do in order to depose himself.

"What must a king do now?" Oh how the words that make up this sentence rearrange themselves to form a drill that proceeds to make holes in my cranium. Perhaps, it is a good thing to have holes in one's cranium, it gives one's brain the option to up and leave. Oh how have I imagined my brain flying off into the sunset, flapping its brain-stem with rapidity, like a rare prehistoric bird. And I? I, desensate wave at it, wishing it good weather and a safe flight. And then I lay me down to sleep- never perchance to dream, thank God!

"What
Must
A
King
Do
Now?"

What fucking 'king'? Oh what a fool! To fashion kingliness out of a slightly higher acumen and a dress-shirt! Wait, what? Higher acumen? No! This is hubris! The Gods shall strike you down for even thinking that!

but i must somehow be contended. my hubris is my hamartia.

God, how I hate your lower-case 'I', but it's good you know your place! And please don't do the whole 'hubris-hamartia' nonsense, you don't know what you are talking about!

YOU CAN'T FUCKING SAY THAT! YOU ARE A PART OF ME!

Typing in upper case? How jarring that looks!

'Jarring that looks?' I do believe that 'jarring' is used to describe sound!

I was being ironic!

You were being ignorant!

Why must you wear that sweater? You look fat!

Oh God! You're doing the Faulkner thing again! This is bad, emo-esque stream-of-consciousness excreta that no-one is going to publish! You're not Quentin!

My skull is like a colosseum packed with angry, toga'd men who are all yelling. Yelling something or the other. I don't hear anyone completely. I can't. Everyone has something to say, and everyone is equally important. These are strange senators, these men, they are not old, but yet they are. Their voices belie their wisdom, for I am sure they are sagacious! Why else would the heavens deploy an entire capitol's worth of senators to help this fragile mind? Yet everyone has a suit! A suit that must be heard! NOW! Am I not a king then? Am I not managing this court? Am I not trying to please them and yet they bring me down! Down? DOWN! Into the base court! Base court? Base court at the base of my brain where I grow base! I answer to traitorous calls and do them grace! I am treason itself.

I! Me! Look at me! Look. Upon. The. Glorious. Drama. That. Is . This. Life. Ay me!

So, really, what the fuck must the king do now? Must he be deposed? Go the fuck ahead! Must he lose the name of king?

Yet we are King. We are king to this revolting land redolent with the vile stench of civil strife.

We are King and this much we know:
the name of king is a God's name.
A God's name. A God's name? Let it go.


Let it go.

And no matter how much we shall have to take of this shit,
We shall always end with a rhyming couplet.