The Scavenger KingWho crushed these grapes, judging them sweet or sour?
When I was king I had a crown of gold.
Stale wine spreads silt and ashes in my mouth,
Sharp fogginess spreads quick into my bones.
When I was king I had a crown of gold
-en thorns that snatched for my brain 'til I bled;
Knowing my children lived just to grow old
I wept, and marvelled, pulling at my beard
Thorns snatching for my brain until I bled
While my hair, silvering around my ears,
Tangled itself into words left unsaid-
One knot for Hope, another there for Prayer.
My hair wisps silver lies around my ears;
My children do not speak their mother tongue.
These offspring show less mercy than the years.
The world's not how it was when I was young.
Descendants do not speak their mother's tongue.
When I was King, I had a golden throne.
Now if I try to talk, my voice is numbed
And when I manage sleep, I sleep alone.
Procession of the InitiatesDionysus incised into a vase
without proper torsion in
his neck bent so far edgeways
the snap in his spine suggests no difference between artistry and mutilation
you dream of cannibals, wake up
mouth filled with gravy
your daughter's voice distorts the world around it
blocking the fire exits, Eowyn cries
I AM NO MAN
aie, she is bright
a companion of laughter and light when she wants to be
and hell all else
six years as a yellow bird
and she's done no good
but no bad either and that says something
IT'S NOT THE DRINKING IT'S HOW WE'RE DRINKING
gods of wine
fghjkhistorians will tell us that
it was because there was not enough time
for the drugs to work
to empty your coquelicot skull
impaled on the spire of the cathedral the
rednecks are driving too fast
the rednecks are driving too fast
you envy your chest its flatness.
brown as a bell noise
swimming in your chest the sun sets
in the east, rises
in the west.
you tell your mother you're a homosexual and she doesn't care.
you tell your mother you're a communist and an alcoholic schizophrenic and a jihadist muslim and she doesn't care.
you're walking down many avenues
at once and in none of them do the leaves shift before your feet, a sea of red
and with no step do you receive that satisfying
of bone and heart and the frailty
of life, all life, the universal stench of human existence
drying out and flattening to the shape of the hard and soulless pavement, such deep thoughts
you should be writing poetry