The mad King slept like a baby,
in fits and starts with intermittent interludes of sobbing.
The letters were coming,
red ink and wax seals,
sealing his fate,
as the drum beat of battered desks ran out through Westminster.
Betrayal was cold and congealed in his mouth,
forced down by the friends he had kept close,
and the enemies he had sewn to his side.
It was all over,
no matter how many fingernails he broke,
clinging to a broken, bloody dream.
Brick by brick,
the boy who became King will be broken down by his own believers,
thrown over Westminster Bridge into the fast, forgiving waters of the Thames,
while they gather around a new dream.
It is all over.
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Sixty seven year old strange man,
in my room.
knelt by my womb,
trying to crawl inside,
as if I am a monster truck,
and there are tools
to destroy the city,
to save some cells,
and keep me in one,
if I resist.
My sister has come,
for the future, of her green and pleasant land,
but my present is her past,
as the sixty seven year old strange man,
steers me through the streets,
and Arlene sneers at my shame,
before going back to her well heated scandals.
I am not a slut.
I am not an incubator.
I am not a slave.
I am not asleep,
but every woman,
in her proud, painful shirt,
“This is what a feminist looks like”,
without looking my way.
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