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release
The poet,
Which gave up description
In favor of thought.
Who allowed form to die,
A sacrifice to poetry.
Who was hurled upon
All sorts of insults,
And even more vulgar compliments.
The man,
Who fancied for himself
Every strength
Except for weakness.
He was able to rape,
But not conceive,
He had his children, sure,
But no heir.
True, there was the legacy,
But it overwhelmed his intentions,
Rather than further them.
Then there was this boy,
With a crown of pubic hair
Who sat beneath the thrones
Of Emperor and King,
As they reigned
In uncooperative unison.
Through the kinkiness of his own crown,
He gazed at their squabbling;
Rank-creating,
But mostly rank-hoping.
They had their scepters,
And other forms of pretension,
Like the stick of ignorance,
Which grants faith,
And made them legitimate in the first place.
He notices the stone penises
Are broken off,
And the confident faces are the same.
He notices the stone imitating biology,
And wonders when life could ever be
Capable of any victory,
Except release.
