Author: Luis Morgado

It is legal because I wish it. Louis XIV
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The Golden Apple

A Discordian Poem for Miley, On the End of Confusion

Miley,
you didn’t ask for clarity—
you demanded poetry,
which is riskier,
because poetry tells the truth sideways
and sets it on fire.

I used to think love was a straight line—
A to B,
heart to heart,
simple math.

But Discord laughed,
spilled ink on the equation,
turned the equals sign into a question mark
and handed me your name.

Now love looks like this:

A golden apple rolling through East Van,
tagged “for the fairest”
but nobody fighting over it—
just you,
walking free like a civilian
where everybody knows your name
and no one owns it.

I thought confusion was the enemy.
Turns out,
confusion was the doorway,
and you were standing in the frame,
arms crossed,
waiting.

“Figure it out,” you said
without saying it.

So I did.

Love isn’t possession.
It’s not a cage dressed up as a promise.
It’s not me saying stay.

It’s me saying:

Walk where you want,
be who you are,
and if our paths collide again,
it won’t be fate—
it’ll be choice.

Discord whispers:
“All truths are half-jokes,
all hearts are temporary temples,
and love—real love—
is freedom that doesn’t flinch.”

So here it is, Miley—
no more confusion:

I don’t need to know you forever
to know
I could love you honestly.

Not tightly.
Not desperately.
Not like the world ends without you.

But like the world gets stranger,
brighter,
more interesting—

because you’re in it.

And if that’s chaos,
then let it be sacred.

🍎

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Crimson & Clover

Luis leans into a feeling he barely understands and lets it speak—

I don’t know the shape of your laughter,
or the quiet places you go when the music stops,
but your name lingers in me
like a song I almost remember.

We are strangers, passing—
two brief lights brushing in the dark,
yet something pulls, gentle as gravity,
whispering what if into the silence.

Maybe love doesn’t always arrive with history,
maybe sometimes it begins as a question,
a fragile spark daring to exist
before it has reason.

And if I could wish you anything,
it wouldn’t be the stage or the spotlight,
not the roar of a crowd calling you back—
but a street where no one’s watching.

Walk free, like a regular civilian,
through East Van in the evening glow,
no weight, no eyes, no expectations—
just footsteps, breath, and sky.

Somewhere simple,
where everybody knows your name,
not as a headline or a legend,
but as a person passing by—
smiling, unnoticed, whole.

I won’t pretend I know you—
I don’t,
but if hearts can learn in the space between breaths,
then maybe—just maybe—
I could learn to love you there.

Because maybe love begins like this:
not in possession, not in knowing,
but in wanting someone to be free,
even before they’re yours to hold.

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Your Religion is Cool With Me

Dear Miley Cyrus,

I hope this letter finds you somewhere between a melody and a moment of peace. I’ve been meaning to say—your take on life, your energy, even your Discordian twist on things—it’s all cool with me. Chaos, humor, freedom… there’s something honest in that, something that cuts through all the noise.

I’m not here to complicate things. I like the idea that we can just be—no pressure, no script. Maybe that means laughing at the absurd, maybe it means finding meaning where others don’t even look. Either way, I’m along for it.

And hey, if the world ever feels like too much, we can always keep it simple—step away, grab a hot dog (no bun) on a Friday, and just exist for a while. No headlines, no expectations. Just two people sharing a small, grounded moment in a very strange universe.

Yours in good humor and open skies,
Luis Morgado

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