Were king where king. Through goned station, awry—how herd the rats, they have red eyes. The last of the stale flatwater goes. We sink in the disease and pray: the leeched bled women will hand her hair to us, on this limb. Underneathe a canard, the gold monks dig caves in the pits of her face: she is pimpled into sex work.
Faced, at last, the male seed, fathered prophetic heir, sells daughters to his kingdom. He draws circles into the eyed—the only eyed madness—to seek the dream of life: this surveillance. In inspected cages, the women begin the crawl to the mud pits where homes like castles.
The kingdom goes to the unearthed wormed. Once wreathed in the vein of their skin, it is now not their stance.
Its performance, though slighted, did connect. The knighted began to kneal to wooden statues in the backyards of peasant homes. Dotted and dressed, carboard bloomed in the church. Cut leathered skin gated the entrance to sacraments—if only we hallowed hold: the service would undue the plague. Soon, as addicted to the smell and felled tire of automobiles, the homely women (beaten as dogs) unwound the head scarfs and railed into the pews of the desert church.
The sand had danced and swallowed the mouths of the coastal villages. There was only a wooden statue, a man erected: perhaps. Gloried in afterbirth, berthed in the corner of a wench’s mudhut, sampled as the glory of offspring: permit the youthful women, the pettite unblessed pregnant to like the passion: his seed diminished the poor into wretched and the king to mad, to unjust, to wretched—to the evil.
The scarfed dwarfed mob at the castle hung the men and women who sold medallions and ate the skin of the sea god, poseidon. In his place, nestled to the hunter cabin palace, the god of this holy seed raised in the roped arms of the villages began to underscore the vibrant—ghouls.
‘They were whores.’ The king shouts.
‘They are whores.’ The king shouts.
He has sat in this castle. He has eaten in his castle. He has watched the thatched roof homes of zeus turned and snarled into the red eyes of rats. They have overdone it—he has thought (then tempted to beds by the white on white on brown skin siren smile of secrecy: concubine, come, concubine run). It is only in the lack that the lack has not undone itself. We king unearthed by the cave dwelt muse: we king uncut by the meek.
The gold hair monk son is the sun. He is born and he is poor. And unmade heat: the stoic praise: if he is god then he has brought the ungod. The king an unking a bearded folly.
The goers, in belief, come on dawn: pray, sleep, trade their hands. The men in shame slip in early afternoon hour, break their backs against the ice flats, romantisize their armies in lust. Then turn the same wet sheets across the real iced women, failed to round home, round bosom, round life.
The cardboard churches in cut out, too early to be steel, collapse. The ancient man is on his knees: risen in horror to his cut out insides. The queens, here, are ants, are lied in torture: ‘Oh Jesus.’ The ancient man dances with himself, he scurries across the floor (a demon—to hell—to hell!). The red eyed rats quarrel, wrangle, with his heart.
My heart—I have a hole in my chest, it is my insides.
The goers, the belief-ers, stand on the backs of pews in this solemn prayer that kings were kings until unmade: it is the unfree; it is the unfree. The suplication to rebuild the dam that has bent into the river. The goers hold hands across their hearts, still there—there—the ancient man has eyes that do not see the shapes and colors of the cut out world: it is the darkness of my rememberless night that has returned, he thinks, believes.
The ancient man rows the rats for his insides. The red eyed rats bite. It is overdone, this history is overdone, the ancient man thinks. He screams. Molested offspring listen, wade through the water, irked by the blind blink of the organ player—the organ player in blue—he has touched me in the confession booths, he has touched me behind the curtains of the church.
It is a lynching.
The now men, once king—once perhaps, to be king—the now men, stamp the herded rows of rats. They have red eyes. They have strained necks. It is a lynching.
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