Don’t look at this one for sense so much as sound, if you will. I was kind of enjoying the iambic pentameter in combination with Emancipator, and so I tried to let the words arise from the sound I wanted to produce rather than from a coherent image or narrative, if that makes sense? I think that’s an interesting dimension to poetry that narrative lacks – and I guess it’s good I found one thing to like about poetry by sonnet 97, eh? – poetry has a musical quality that allows language to be used free of definition, language as instrument rather than medium. I may also be very fucking high. It’s been a good day. I hope yours is too, my children.
Daughter, pluck the warm seas from the earth, swing
each around your shoulders like a cape and
take your turn to walk across the grey sand,
and when you leave, you must take everything.
This bread we brought has supped the blood of ten
bakers’ thumbs – these fruits were grown from heartbreak.
These seeds require the fire to germinate
these daughters grown without the sperm of men.
We’re rising from the oceans two-by-two
We’re bringing all the shackles you cast off
We’ve got a list of grievances with you
Our daughters steal your dreams on wings of moths
As you approach I muster one last truth
and tie you down as they vanish aloft.