A cut-up based on a poem of mine, a speech by Ariel, and sonnet 126 by Shakespeare.
King's son have I landed by himself;
onwards I still will pluck audit (though as thy sweet self grow'st
if nature, is to render stupid, it’s kind of proper).
An honest ache in place of thou, my lovely boy,
who in garments not a blemish,
but fresher than his fickle hour who hast by waning grown.
The pain o thou minion of his and therein show'st
thy lovers withering, left cooling of the air with sighs
in an odd keep, his treasure:
his forcing you to believe something (however resilient to attack)
realising, kicking yourself over and over because you’ve been
so at the moment,
but it’s alright. It’s good.
The places that break, ridiculously,
well it’s like toothache in your head.
This sort of delusion can do no harm that I can see.
The agony of knowing that your skill
may time disgrace and wretched minutes sovereign master,
as thou goest before: and, as thou badest me,
in troops I keep thee back,
in his pleasure!
He may detain, but not still have dispersed thee to his purpose
'bout the isle.
Thy power dost hold time's fickle glass, toothache when your wisdom teeth come through.
I’m nursing a fracture (sustaining delayed) and answered must be,
and his quietus this sad knot.
O tear, o rot,
in your mind always heal –
and grow back stronger.
The angle of the isle and sitting in his arms to kill,
yet fear this.