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Void and Compensation (Sir Parricide)


There is the act, and there is the actor,
Sir Parricide: are you not keenly aware
of your actions, how your first infidelity
was against those who carried you here
in the first place? They were your first place,
and you have butchered them, clear-cut that tract.

If a king is capable of moving backwards,
tomorrow lets you claim what you won’t stake today.
One-touch, your thermostat is irrefutable:
set the weather at home as you like it.
Have the heat vents wheeze their intonations
that turn invitation, turn sleep, turn dream.

But wait, your highness, first, a nightcap.
Sir, lager is regal, as are you, your bladder full
so that it might echo your mind, self-served,
so fraught with murky thinking and sharp axes
that you’d piss away a forest into fairway.
See the green? Hear that lone tree, the wind-toy?
Now there’s a lark. It’s calling. It’s your song.

Posted 08/27/11
Originally published in Spinning Jenny (Issue 9)
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