buy the emperor's mismatchbox

the summary:
how i ruled a third-world country
with third-degree burns. or how i
lost my self-respect, lost my head.
lost my virginity.    lost my sanity.
lost my face to a conflagration.

the moral:
what happens in vegas stays in vegas.
but we're in henderson or something.
what happens in your car stays
between our mouths, our lips,
and everyone else's, i suppose.

the setting:
the backseat of a mustang.
and the driver's seat.   and
the passenger's seat.   and
the seat that doesn't exist.

the plot:
i set rumours like wildfires
in the midst of flammable
forest-egos. i spread truth
like how i spread my legs,
like how an inferno spread
from my head to your bed
i might never lay in again.

the climax:
we're so anticlimactic.

the denouement:
combustion strikes chords
like matches, in my phallic
guitar (will you ever strum
it again?) incinerating the
emperor's throne of rueful
shame.  call me tyrannous,
an incendiary dictator, and
watch as i allow noblemen
(and other desperate lords)
to leave hearts in ruins, or
ignore royal orders as they
destroy this proud kingdom.
ashes to ashes, lust to lust:
some arsonist's abdication
from a castle with no walls.

the present:
now i'm sick of infamously running
the monarchy of acknowledgment
that i never signed up for anyway.
this is me inserting an 's' in reign.
right between the vowels.  i quit.