Saturday, January 5, 2008

IX


The queen quakes.
She slumbers, unencumbered by callous thoughts
or splintered, shredding worries.
Her bed is soft, but bears my
blistered hand by her side; a
bold brandisher of battle-blade
and blood-bludgeoner.
It trembles amidst comfort, laid
in domesticity.


Nothing to say about this one. Just a return to the eponymous 'Plain Praetorian' poem.

Expect more, for better or for worse.

2 comments:

kidjumpsearly said...

i dig your way with the narrative arc even in such a short piece. ditto the consonance; it's your balance of art and satire that really succeeds here i think. i can't wait to see more.

Gunter Heidrich said...

Very Beowulf meets Victorian prose. I much approve.