Bad Poet

Let’s say it’s the 12th century or something—no, farther back than that. I’m the first queen, Greek or Roman or whatever. Things have finally civilized and I’m on top. Ok.

Say I came out queening—I knew nothing but royal wombs and wipes.

Little Princess, Little Princess, where is your head?
Little Princess, Little Princess, why aren’t you dead?

That’s what they say behind my back. Most of the time, I don’t hear. I’ve got that crown on, remember. It can muffle all kinds of things.

I get food all the time. Terribly fat. People paint me on coliseums—I’m that large.

Also—the beautiful people crowd at my crotch. I keep one at each nipple—I’m constantly aroused. I float through Rome—at the tip of an organism.—there and there oh god oh god yes.

And of course, my husband. Light of my light. Dark of my dark. He’s the half-heart of a full moon—we howl through each other. Love is love is love is love.

So things are settled, right? I’m top-to-bottom, scot-free. There’s life and there’s this—I’m this.

So what happens when I get a snapshot of the other side? How many pictures of bodies-thrown-to-lions do I need to see? How many eye sockets do I have to fondle?

Should I put my face in the shit until I puke?

Where should you slap me and how hard?

Maybe there’s a special punishment for queens like me. It’s called All-tired Eyes-wide-open Boredom. Also, the expensive soaps make my skin fall off (again—every winter—godlike).

Am I to conclude? No. Why should I? Nothing’s going to stop me from eating my own mouth.

Tell me I’m a bad poet—I’ve been very very bad.

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