Hello my many mellow men. You know not who I am, but I do know you. I am the one who talks of striking the witches from that hut because the ice is too thick in Flatboat India. I tried playing the piano once but I broke most of my fingers beforehand and attempting to move them across the ivory keys simply lead to my screaming and wishing I was not conscious.

My suit is filthy; I’ve been wearing it for weeks. I can’t escape.

Look at my golden birdcage and let me know what you think, it is so pretty and glows, it is so soft it breaks. I know that I can do more than this if I try to escape. But where would my heart go to if I left this malleable cage, if I opened the door and walked outside- how would I get a taste for true depression? The suit that binds me, the cage that holds me- they both speak to me so lovely of a world that breaks spirits much stronger than mine. How could I leave it when it speaks to me so?

A lucky kneejerk reaction lay out my future, take these old bones and whisper to me. It is okay Sir Puddle I’m here, it is okay – you understand I speak for you do you not? I can feel and measure your sadness in a way no others can. I cannot give you anything if you leave me Sir Puddle. If you leave me Sir Puddle, you will get nothing.

Oh cascade of geese, your fortune unknown- when will Sir Puddle get out of this cavern and roam- far from this cage and this suit, far from the voices in his head- when will Sir Puddle be free- will it be before he is dead?!

Oh quiet you voices that dance in my head! Watch your language filthy rats, naked geese, put on your clothes! No more no more, birthing eyebrows from my mouth- no more oh no more birthing voices from your soiled suit. Sir Puddle will you dance with me, please take my hands, roam them along the golden bars and take this chance. A thousand mosquitos in this cavern drinking blood, from a thousand geese that lay dead from your word. You shouted Sir Puddle, you shouted so soft, you shouted a whisper that conjured these demons. Sir Puddle loved you, Sir Puddle married me- Sir Puddle took this suit off, Sir Puddle set me free. I couldn’t cope with the weight of his heart in the cathedral I left him with a sculpture of his murder, a sign of my distrust- Sir Puddle was a thief, Sir Puddle lost his mind.

No more filthy tourists, my revolution has begun. Sir Puddle is free now, Sir Puddle has won! There are no more people here walking, stomping, on the run. There can’t be another who conjures up demons from the bottom of my mind to the inside, surely Sir Puddle will fix them, isn’t that right? Where did you go Sir Puddle my friend, where have you went- oh where have you been?

Lemon flavored sausage for my South Korean friend, a wafer thin and crisp for Sir Puddle’s pregnant mind. Beauty in the eye of a screaming passerby- one who cries for redemption in the heart of a thousand million lies, Sir Puddle dies- Sir Puddle dies.

Leave me be you broken mind, leave me be you suited figure, in your golden cage- with your musical growling and your stolen red jackets. My friends aren’t thieves, those thieves simply cry. My friends are but crows come down to peck out eyes. Oh it was so great when Sir Puddle had come, a wave of mutilation from the coast- the setting sun, my wetsuit granting favor and protection to my skin. The blood could not soak in! Thank god the blood could not soak in.

Sir Puddle lit a candle in Germany softening the voice of a million cries; Sir Puddle took a spoon and out went his eyes! Sir Puddle dealt a dealers deck with silvery tongued demons. Sir Puddle raced a million just to die on our couch. Sir Puddle hates scissors because they remind him of his children; Sir Puddle distributes much from his place inside our heads.

Stand here alone in Coliseum so grand, wearing filthy suits in golden bars with thousands of innocent dead, pests living off the rot as our friends lay inside dead. No victory for me, or Sir Puddle, or our fellow brethren. No victory for us.

Don’t open the window, don’t let the windows wind in, and don’t let the beautiful crowd see our figures lying dead. We serve not a reminder, nor beauty, nor glory. We simply wrote meaningless words, learned nothing, and then died. We killed thousands of geese and fed their blood to winged creatures, whilst living alone together in cold golden cells of creative construction.

We are all alone, we are all so chained, we are all together, we exist in unity, we exist forever apart, forever swallowing dirt and sweat in the light of the setting sun.

Sir Puddle exists alone, in a place of pure pain- strapped heart on head through shallow breath.

Sir Puddle was a Poet but now Sir Puddle is dead.

Will somebody please get Sir Puddle’s body off of our couch?

We’d really appreciate it…..

Sincerest Regards, C*MAR.

P.S. – I love you.

P.P.S.S.S.S. – No more skipping Tuesdays, we already fired June. We can’t keep doing this.