The blood that gushes thick as bricks
through walls and flushes plaster pink
bleeds out in light bulbs, like an ichor
shower falling weak as water from
the veins of ancient gods whose names
are long forgotten. No neo-classical
revival in the architecture of this room.
The doom of ragnarok is replicated
in the shattered rainbow of a tiffany lamp
and the midgard serpent’s severed coils
leave scales of rising damp in blotchy
splashes round the riddled wainscoting.
Our hero rests his multi-function wand
upon his throne’s upholstery and raises
flagons of aluminium tinctured mead
to a mouth that commands no armies,
speaks no magic spells and pronounces
naught of law. Yet he raves at injustices
that his rheumy eyes are shown by charlatans
who tempt him with such treasures he can
barely comprehend. In singlet and soiled
codpiece, he strikes a tragic pose and
his manhood is a piss proud standard
which only waves now all wars are lost.
