let’s sing a song

The Royal Song

I write songs on this white shiny
bowl, sitting like a king
on his ceramic throne,
gathering distant inspiration
from muses locked up
within walls of roof tins
and stain-old plywood.

Up in the ceiling of cobwebs
in this comfort outpost,
a bulb hangs and glares
in a yellow-dull stare,
solitary and rusting,
lighting the darkness of
this kingdom of cold, mossy tiles,
illuminating subjects
of born silence:
a soap dish, shampoo sachets,
and the living sound of water
dripping endlessly down the drain.

I scribble words to describe
the rat stealing glances on
my unpolished toenails
while a black little spider,
shining in the dark,
moving in a polygonal dance,
weaves another house of silk,
adding another lot to its estate of dust.

Standing up to wash my past,
I gather the muses of the ripples
and of the undaunted scents.
I flush the world and there goes another song,
singing its way down the cesspool
where all my works they say should belong.
I leave my position and kingdom
to live a life of an ordinary man.

Tomorrow night, my throne will sing
and I shall reign again.