Bruce Boston


Once the initials of the kingdom
are carved in bittersweet dalliance,
the Queen eats only fleurs-de-lis,
continuous abalone of a suave persuasion,
an occasional valence of mass hysteria.

Often we have heard her lemming
in the raw corn silk of the night
— argumentative Gatling, endless
whalebones, meretricious knees —
all of the lady in sly concoction,
irreparable as the bare velocity
of her bodice-torn meat.

And this we know and this we are,
camouflaged and flogged by sleep,
as if the rain that seeps along
the flowering crevices
and streaked crenellations
of Cyclopean warriors, proud
to serve Her Majesty’s exposed
exaltations, could actually feed
the dark and mouthless children
who defile the square.

Laboratory archangels swirling down
the alembic of decanted youth
have concocted a stray tincture
so potent in its ergonomic wattage
that libraries and motor courts
throughout our once-great nation
will never somnambulate with
the same diabolic orientation.

Rarely missing an atom or a fig,
brimming with Rosicrucian hindsight,
this strained deliquescent elixir
will revolutionize mass transit,
prioritize gross national procurement,
palpate the sovereign sea with petals,
and canonize even those imbecilic
enough to challenge its berth.

Nevermore must we forego
the stately pleasures of Kubla Khan,
the slow dulcimer and the downy peek.
No longer must we ignite the fuse
that turns the monstrous Arctic dusk
to clumps of glowing icons in our laps,
nor resuscitate the last-gasp myths
that have shaved our daily needs.

Sad sybarites of the world unite!
You have nothing to excavate
but your long-benighted humors.
Nothing to fear but Oysters Rockefeller.
Nothing to swallow but the lightning bolts
that coruscate the pelted brain stem
and all it surveys with colors so quick
to run their shades are legend.


Issue 3 Table of Contents