Bastard to the Golden Jeweled Throne

Words, mumbled in fits of lucidity,
Words, poetic crumbs scattered,
The paper ash burnt, wine stained.
What was she, whore, free spirit,
Thighs brimming with creation?
Tattoos as multicolored flesh brands.
Did they make a statement or condemn?
A volcanic pleasure of congress,
That sexual upheaval of satisfaction.
The play was sweat and scent beneath,
Licked erotica sucked into nostrils.
Inhaled as life, tainting olfactories,
marking the soul with winters need,
clasped in warmth creating a summer gift.
In the light of a full August moon,
She cried with a wail that shook
those granite halls of manhood,
Broke the iron stones of desolation.
From her prostrate body in fluid
flowed a man child of wanton desire,
an innocent marked with the label.
She ignored the sire, his craven distance.
Ignored the condemnation of the ignorant.
The scepter she cradled in her arms
Bastard to the Golden Jeweled Throne.
Relief to the masses a chaste and pious king.
When they came for the man child,
Swords unsheathed, hearts of stone
Solicitors of death and evil,
She hid her babe in swaddling,
In a reed basket and cast his fate
Upon the soul of the ancient Nile.

Copyright: 2010, Donald Harbour

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