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it's not enough Guinevere,
or should i call you Morgana?
unless you, too, see me
like a novelty act, with your shiny wizard.



you're always against everything anyway.
the cliched apples,
the nudes i draw,
the fig leaves your nerves cover them up with.



but you don't cover everything.
only you pretend you have to
with me.
you're the mother of my name...
the forest where i form my rocks.



but there's more things us men can give you,
than things you can't touch all at once.
you can touch it all at once,
but you don't need to;
when you don't even try for what you want.



evil,
the longer you strive to be queen
the better. the moment you succeed,
dark ruler,
it all goes up in smoke;
all smoke.


you say we're all the same.
but there's more i, myself, have
to give you, than smoke and mirrors.



you hate the taste of wine,
but you're not a Lilith that sucks,
or a witch that feeds your apples
to other women;
as much as you want the sky to be clear
like the nights when you and i would walk,
you can't breathe without the fogs of London,
the sick harvest burning of zombie weeds at that.



you're too worn to be a queen,
and drinking from my fountain of youth
makes you shiver in heat, in fear,
and talk like a child.
you'll always be a princess either way.



my illness will keep me young for years
to come. that's my magic.--
but you're not afraid of that are you?
you're afraid of all that's not magical,
not powerful, not immortal
unless bought in zombie fog.



you can only be a queen if you can pick the brain,
and remove the heart without breaking it
or touching it;
it's hard to love someone that you can't hate even for a moment.

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