After another difficult day running the fourth largest crew in The Loop, Kirsty walks out of her HQ, stands on a podium and begins to speak...

"Careful what you wish for, that's what they say, isn't it?  For many of us, a bold suit and an HQ is the ultimate accolade, the end result of ambitious hard work and vision.  And, in a sense, I am no difference.  All told, my family journals document numerous CLs.  Some more successful than others.  One is something of a legend.  Another lasted less than a day, his murder still a mystery.

But back to the present day.  For many of us, the position of CL is validation: proof that one can operate at the highest echelons of this thing of ours.  Mercifully, I knew that anyway, so didn't require that.  For others, they enjoy the power.  Again, not my motivator.  I have a secure attachment style which means that I am cognisant of the powerful personality and charisma that comes naturally to me.  No, I have perhaps a unique reason for wanting to own an HQ.

I am institutionalised.  I served a period of incarceration for adapting the words of a radio programme and passing them off as my own.  I was, rightly, promptly and justly, sentenced to a significant term of imprisonment.  Whilst there, I drank "pruno" wrote, recited and heard poetry, and tried not to feel left out at being excluded from the salads being discreetly prepared by Big Andy.

So I set up my HQ in order to recreate that special prison experience.  My successes, such as they understood in this society, can't be argued with.  I tripled membership in less than 24 hours.  I accidentally donated $5,000,000 to a non-existent Godfather, money I'll never see again, and headed over to IRC Avenue to join the other CLs at their traditional sitdown before realising it no longer exists.

I have to acknowledge mistakes.  I dearly love my associates, Seven and LoudQueefer - but neither of them are natural poets.  And I can't train them in the art of masculine love poetry.  It wouldn't be appropriate.  In today's progressive culture, Big Ape's mentoring style might be considered exploitative.  I cannot replicate it.  

I have tried, many times, to bring masculine love poetry and prose to the Streets.  I wanted to use my bold suit to raise the profile of this criminally maligned and misunderstood genre, but I am wondering if I am simply wasting my time.

Perhaps it is best to leave the final word to the finest incarcerated sodomite, notwithstanding Big Ape, that this world has ever know:

"Each man kills the thing he loves"

So, instead of doing what I love, promoting masculine love poetry, I will instead build an exceptionally powerful five man HQ.

And, if I fall during this quest, I want this to be my epitaph:

"He does not die a death of shame
  On a day of dark disgrace,
Nor have a noose about his neck,
  Nor a cloth upon his face,
Nor drop feet foremost through the floor
  Into an empty place"

In fact, here is an offer, a challenge, to you.  If you can think of a epitaph that incorporate masculine love poetry, I will send you a seven figure gift.

Or, in clearer English, if you write a short piece of writing about masculine love poetry, I will send you some cash, and if it's good, it will be in the millions.  Pin your submission here.