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).