[On Crafting A] Throne World
“Opinor ergo sum” —
— my pen singing in the same key as
a birthday candle’s dulcet surrender
a wailing mother, a cooling Glock,
an emergency call to prayer,
a kiss hello, a welcome home.
Of all the realms hidden between your synapses,
cherish the one that lets you tune its gravity to your liking.
We understood this better as children.
Remember that Tamogatchi-era of innocence?
A game of life in our small palms,
but a cellular automation in more capable hands.
That is where you are now.
A world formed where the mind meets verse.
Please don’t mind my mess, I’m always renovating.
Welcome. Trade your shoes for slippers in the foyer.
Get something from the fridge. The bathroom is past the living room on the right.
Microwave a kind memory of yours and follow me when you’re ready.
Past the kitchenette, but before the garden, we approach my standing fountain.
We throw our heads in and come up gasping as a different creation each time.
sunbeams will meet us from the terrace.
Prune a few clippings from that memory, and plant them
right under any moss-covered statue.
A congress of thoughts flock overhead between boughs
to chirp gossip around the essence of survival
“Did you hear about the…”
“Thousands dead? Yes. And did you hear abou–”
“I know, no indictments or charges”
“Is the end coming? Is it here?”
“Are the survivors the spoils for the rapture?”
“Hold your tongue, they’re listening.”
This is why we clip our pleasures and hide them where they’re harder to kill.
Fashion your foundation from whimsy and undying things.
My joy is as much of an anchor as it is a flame,
black roots gridlocked to the truth.
Out there, something wicked is trying to convince me
that my purpose is not recursive.
In here, I fashion keys to new thrones and ideas to ignite firmaments.
I create to create and survive so that others may survive.
This, I may persist in anyone who may witness me.
[On Sustaining Your] Throne World
“And despite all going on in the world…delve into love and joy. Meaning can even exist in the breath of an ellipsis.” — Throne-world Faiyum
Here’s the short of it:
Remember how you’ll notice the smell of your home when you return from a heavy world. But you adapt, just as you do. You learned to navigate rooms with air and mere touch. And that is how we adapt. Tend to us until we speak. This is the first writ.
Next, remember that feelings are but technologies and imaginations are arguments. Justify accordingly. Across every reality, someone is doing their best to make you safe in their own eyes and by their own design.
Lastly, name the realm before you leave. Your name will be burned into the foundation for a reason. This last writ demands a name to reference for heavenly records where tears are logged and stolen treasures may be restored.
[On Destroying Another’s] Throne World
“While I was being built, I remember someone sobbing, ‘God, all I wanted to do was hide.’ As if words could be detached from the body that formed them.” — Throne-world [REDACTED]
As if I’d teach you the fundamentals of my destruction.
You think yourself clever, binding me to a poem.
Let me speak plainly. You walk in theory but lack application.
We are all built differently. I have rarely seen another throne built with perfect strength.
You would think that understanding your own undoing would be enough to prevent it.
The fourth writ states that there are always weaknesses.
That’s all you get.
What is my perfect strength?
Well, of course, you would be curious about my splendor.
I have learned to endure without a regent.
If you leave a world to fend for itself, the overgrowth will devise its own conclusions.
“Being alone” is an allotrope of “loneliness.” One that I have used to fashion these arms and uproot oak halls to reconfigure my core. I tore out a name and ripped it apart
syllable by syllable.
I howled until my voice was but a rumbling whisper.
Before you release me, here’s the fifth writ.
Remember that self-destruction is learned.
It’s an ingenious infection and one of many keys to a throne.
Guard yourself accordingly, stranger.
Armoni Boone is a writer and multidisciplinary artist who explores the intersections of art, technology and culture. He lives in New York.