The Letters...

Dear Ms Nixie, I am stricken with everything. I am stricken with the impotence of the modern individual as though nothing has changed since 1885. I am stricken with frustrations, isolations, thwarted desires, visceral feelings of weariness, embarrassment, regret, longing, emasculation, sexual frustration, a sense of decay and the dramatic interior of my ever burgeoning imagination set against the falsehood of a constructed farce that bears witness to nobody’s heart. I owe my success as it was, to Ezra. She submitted my first poem because no poet ever seems to feel fitting of such a title really, for all of it is merely just the outpouring of a a great stream of consciousness. In the rooms now, the women come and go talking of Michaelangelo, must we see only the drowning of hope? Yours truly, Mr T. S. Elliot. Time Tourist… Dear Mr Elliot, How lovely of you to stop in dear. I’ve just finished one of my coseys. This should warm your co

Dear Ms Nixie, My name is Juliet. I live in Verona. I live in a book written by a man. I lived in a type of bell jar, allowed something of a voice with a lid to hold it all in. Do you know a woman never played me. It was a man of course, forbidden as it was for us to be seen on the stage, always hidden, ah but we are only as much as we choose to reveal or as much as we are deemed worthy. I do not wear a bikini but of course I would if my time was now because of the men. I never wanted to be on the top of a balcony, though it was better than being at the bottom. I never would have chosen poison and I never would have chosen to die for a man. I never wanted to stay young in death because old is the youngest moment of wonder one can ever reach. What I mean to say is the older one gets, the purest wonder can be found, like a child rediscovering the world with a fresh perspective and a lot more understanding, despite the ones who want to get in the way of such magic.   I don’t feel par