had Marc Antony a child,

it would be in September
that I removed the mantle from my country,
spread it upon the imperial ground, and
unfolded all its humble creases so that
all the blood stains were there,
so bright they were almost blood stains on my own blue eyes,
almost blood stains on humanity's chest,
almost blood stains that I created when
I strangled my country to death — or was it to life? —
I cannot remember,

for so long ago I forgot
my country had been murdered,
stored away in the morose attic,
thumping away like a telltale heart,
(did I panic? I cannot say,
being enraptured with Poe I had neglected the moment) where
so gently encased in a trinity of colors
it was so unaware, it seems, that color is a treacherous friend —
unaware that I, lover that I am,
Whitman-imbued soul that saunters like a god,
mouth of spewing prose that masquerades as poetic sapphire,
might have felt December a more satisfying month,
or February,
sweet February,
Valentine epoch of capitalism and orgasm,
was February a more fitting conclusion to infidelity?

— or was it betrayal?
So often the blood and its vampire nature sugarcoat the whole affair
that it becomes a difficult question,
whether the lover murdered
or the beloved embraced suicide.

Sometimes I have an ocean
that I call passion

— and oceans tend to not be subtle
or distinct —
they tend to exaggerate,
dramatize themselves into nightmares
so that I, patriot and rebel, even sinner and divine
("human" if I were cliche),

I seem to lose my train of thought
and choose to mourn the death of majesty

— then live,
perhaps to grip the nearby shotgun,
later to write similarly of Poetry.