X - Kings of England

Today I am walking in the wet street
with my countryman umbrella, mulling
over the issues of beauty, how I might
infiltrate the ranks of the beautiful,
and what kind of man I will become,
what kind of mythical body

Will I be parading the thistle-scar on my face,
turning pirates into pilgrims, and making
V-signs at the French?
I am tempted, by your weak spots,
your gurgling laughter, and the way
your fingers move so quickly when you write,
your handwriting like a cloud of arrows
pinning the manuscript, like swifts.
Let me go limp for you like a manuscript,
and win you over with cavalry formation
and Burgundy

Will I be the hidden saint, stunned
at torture devices, constantly retrieving
my hat in moments of paralysis?
This option is made more favourable
by the taste of the distance you keep,
a prayer of Norfolk lavender ice cream,
I warm to every flinch, to your revulsion
to the embarrassment of my gestures
The way you look at other men brings out
the pretty gospel of your eyelashes

Will I be a playboy, spilling wine,
marrying off relatives and endlessly writing
about the legend of myself?
You know I go hot at your subtle touch
I enjoy our wrestling, but I would like you best
as my optician, or hairdresser - leafing through
my mane, making the mildest adjustments,
the perfect tease. Perhaps we could be
in a boat, alone together, on the Wensum?
I'd play a song while you cut my hair

Or will I become deformed, twist my lip,
throw people in my tower and carry
my father's legacy like a hand grenade?
Though I do wander endlessly in wet streets
it must be said that I want you, perhaps
want you whole and weakened, and will go
to any length to have you, to comb your bangs
out of your eyes, my other hand begind your head,
and block your protests with my mouth.
Then I, boa constrictus, regis, will ask for early death.