The KING! The KING!
Kingly debates and debacles
surround the love between ancients and
yearlings.
Buttery wings
of saplings
glide and flip the earth,
over-turning the edges of things.
And the KING!
The KING is waiting to arrive.
“Arise, sprouts!
The time for bowing is past.
Your KING wishes you strong
and questioning.
The REALM requires your sass, your
imagination . . .”
Imagine a nation of crawlybugs and
leftovers.
Imagine you as a child, beaming
and bubbling ,
teeth full of splinters.
And imagine me. Killing you.
And imagine the EARTH
relieved.
You are for what our mother
has been waiting . . .
“Ew, Tina! Close your legs.”
This is it.
Tina, you are beautiful.
So close your legs and kill yourself
for your Dear Old Mother Earth!
Cut yourself off from your own
exquisiteness.
Maybe it will be the last straw,
the last knocking and slapping of
knees and thighs,
last drip of power.
What you wish to hide,
we wish to devour.
Close your legs and kill yourself.
Send us back under the dirt.
Feed us to our own mother,
snarling and sniveling in angst,
starvation and regret.
Let her rip us open, but she’ll
find no blood, nothing
to quench her thirst.
Nothing to soothe her madness.
We’ve been all dried up.
God-damn you, Tina.
The grail is green with poison
a droplet apocalypse of
injected virginal blame and
slut shame
torn, and
ripped and
raped, it seems
by a tyrannical teen-aged KING,
when it is you
should be unraveling.
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