On the day he died
King Arthur ordered his knights
told them to prepare to fight
and maybe even die;
He was brave
and so was Mordred
who put a sword through his father,
the once and future tyrant.

At Camlann, the day was hot,
yet so cold; the air was misty
and the sea boiled;
The trees tilted away
looking scared and ashamed;
The prophets were quiet,
tight lipped, they sat up high,
chain-smoking on the peace pipe.

Mordred's head was pins-and-needles.
He clawed at his sword in stress,
looking at the opposite camp.
He thought of his mother at Avalon,
wondering if she'll bury him there
or his father. What will he do upon
arriving with heavy steps
on the fields of Camlann? He feels lost.

King Arthur was brandishing Excalibur,
lost in thoughts of murderous
sons and treacherous friends
and cheating wives.
He was reminiscing of his sister
and the ***** secret that lay,
all his shame, out in the open.
“'Tis long overdue.” He pondered.

Then came the hour, the minute,
the second; On the plains of Camlann
an ordinary soldier
saw the heavens through the clouds,
while the great knights were busy
with bloodbath and sacrifice.
He screamed with joy and terror
as the swords clashed with each other.

In the midst of the bloodthirsty,
confused horde was Mordred,
a ****** smile on his face
and his ragged blade
tore a gaping hole
in his father's abdomen.
As soon as he hit the floor,
Lancelot came from beyond.

He was too late; his king dead,
his queen devastated, banished;
she fled unwilling, but obediently.
There was only one thing left
to do; Lancelot knew well.
So King Arthur met his end at Camlann
and died with his son, Mordred.

That was the day their lives ended;
The lake Avalon took them in
and swallowed their bodies whole;
Lancelot watched the fire burn away.
Nimue, at the bottom of the lake,
broke the sword in half and wailed.
The world got quiet and moved on,
carrying the weight of forever lost
Camelot.

Like a serpent
  it tears through me;
Conducting
  my body in turns
  and twists, as it pleases,
  as the warmth pools in pits
  in my stomach, my gut
  tells me to *****.
I feel detached.
Forever lost in a void,
  the empty space of a thought
  that I truly am alone. "Help!"
  I yell, over and over and over
  like a damsel in distress.

I am too tall, too dull.
my body is too far
  for me to reach and grip
  and curl up and pity
  who I used to be
  and who will I become,
  after the blue light of my phone
  dies down and falls
  down through the sewer hole
  in London Soho.
And all the while I stand,
  unforgiving of the past,
  erasing my name on documents
  but still looking back at Them.

I'm always gonna look back.
I'm never gonna escape Hell.
  and while Hell is Paradise
  and Paradise is Purgatory,
  and the choice is mine,
  but I will never be able to decide;
Is it better to die
  or to die and keep dying,
  until I am reborn and never
  seen again by the Neighbours
  next door
  who last saw me drinking coffee
  and reading a poem.

If I survive this
week's utter chaos, I can
pull through anything.

Light streaks gleamed through the
Cracks in the clouds; O Heaven!
O Hell! Take me home!

I visited Sophianae last week
  to see a flock of ravens
     who had large, black beaks
         and weary, calloused
           eyes and glossy scalpels.
              They gazed at my divine,
            God given gift; my spine,
          a tree that holds up my being,
       so twisted up and torn down.
    They sighed in exasperation.
  I almost felt their equipment
splitting me wide open;
    instead I imagined
      I was lost at sea
      with Odysseus; then I saw clear:
    their scalpels were glossy
  from salty, fallen tears
and broken winged dreams.