#2,679 A Coronation Poem

I will enter my next decade
in such a lone fugue – stuck
with greys [& loosenings of
skin] – with my dull purdah
days I roll from my heights
to finding that low place in
minutes [an easy falling on
my blunt-word sword] – As
our worlds rot to withering
hulks of recall we’ll shelter
with bright distractions on
our phones – we’ll stuff our
gobs with sickly sweets [as
smiles invert] – we’ll follow
those blue-ticking fuckers –
we’ll endure alt-right royal
lies piled high [don’t argue
against Charles & that tart
less you wish to be banged
up by men-in-blue by order
His Majesty’s Government]
as I command Alexa: ‘stop
& my quiet day returns – as
imported flag-buntings sag
with wet weight of enough-
is-enough! – My reign solus
continues as before – alone