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  • Roy Duffield

The queen of heart

By Roy Duffield





Her line

that goes nowhere

Her line

that couldn’t be drawn straight

with a ruler

Her divine right

to a pawn’s moves, and

Her coronation

a corona bottle

to the face, and

Her castle

of broken glass and sodden two-birthday

card, and

Her Queen’s speech

fractured

monotonous and

fowl

Her swans

just ducks

with dirty arses

Her (pack of) hounds

a lone fox

Her portrait

in the gutter water

as she stops

to pick up the penny

at the very

bottom

Her royal family

of orphans

Her servants

her own hands

her own legs

Her loyal subjects

Society’s rejects

Her suitors—

Our Queen in drag

through—

Her Grand

Puke

who watches her sleep

every night

from the pillow beside—

its pillow case

of black

bin

liner

Her United Kingdom

of brain cells

of bloody-mind

Her crown

of bald skin

royally nuked—

Her Thirty Years' War

on Cancer

Her jewels

gnarls

on cracked,

bare fingers

Her guillotine

that falls

every day

every minute

Her royal lowness

Her Majesté

The Queen of Heart

The only queen

for me.


 

Roy Duffield is a nomadic writer/translator and helps edit Anti-Heroin Chic, a journal that puts those on the outside inside. His words have recently been spotted entering such establishments as Osmosis, Sein und Werden, Versification, Seppuku, Lotus-eater and The London Reader’s issue on resistance and counterculture. Feel free to connect with him on Instagram (@drinking_traveller) or Twitter (@drinktraveller).

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