the mad king Ir
mad i say, as fleas
in the cochlea, stares
disturbed at the toy he once
played, as a golden boy
fingers map its pitted
surface, barnacle rough
mountain ranges, turns it
what the fuck he says in quatrain
four times over, cycling soft tissue
membrane, times square ticker
tape digital red glow scape
worn aged postage handed over
to postal workers, barbed
wire stripped fingered post hole
diggers string prose post
edit earning obscure
Grecian names on the deathbeds
of ten female offspring
red rum, Merlot
between hell and breakfast
nestles a sweet spot, write
anyways, cackles the mad king Ir
releasing the toy, rolling, throne
to corner chamber pot,
a lone sun beam highlights
sigils of his fingerprints
along its skin.
dipping his pen in open
sores, he begins...
10DOM
