The good whore queen

I am dead and what made them dead was
My slow burrow and how it tread
Upon my stroked brow, machine-soft for
The digging fly. The alien head pries
On the shallow Godiva prostrate or
Perhaps seeking the other hives—
Does a man like Zeus molest and thrive
On the stupor of his ignorant thralls?
Here in the queen’s body, I am dead
As she has died by the river tide out
That once carried over-ripe berries
Between our distant glutton mouths.
I wash in the water that is her ferry
As swimming ants clump like ambergris.

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~ by Jeremy on March 25, 2011.

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