Robert Verdon, #299, Queen Victoria's Death

a

needless medicinal dirge of

polite long-range rain

falls thunderously on guzzled chickens

during the sempiternal night of a

pub with no bier

its longhouse assembly of socialist colonials waiting

for

fencing

instructors, sherpas, and

dancing masters

to get off Sky TV

and tell them the fate of Her Majesty

while frowzled musicians play on

double-glazed

crewcut

sharp-bearded

bedlam in a

letterbox

soaring

into the mango

light

till up comes the sun

at the end of the greasy Limpopo

brass polish on the dawn clouds

dubbin on the broccoli

golden eye ointment

shining on rumpled underwear in the panelled

woods

rising

dizzily from the last

night

amputated sweet dreams

unknown wars to come

garden cities paved with

glass beards

rheumy livers

mighty vines of veins

squalid telegraph wires of synapses

ribald cherries

dimpled simplicities

with these fantasies

and a secret letter from Dr Freud

it is announced again

that the old queen had popped off at 6.30 p.m.

on the Isle of Wight

and they drink to her health

and dance