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❝ passed down ❞
The dust thunders red and thick in this kingdom
where people grow up teaching daughter or son
a storm is never just a storm. Storms here are bilingual
and they will take opportunity to bury you underneath
the dust and the thunder and the red, red history.
This kingdom keeps its promise: you will be thrown.
A boy curls dirty fingers on the crown, thrown
for his future, heartbeats a ricochet the kingdom
hears as a national anthem, the outro of history
storming blind blood passed down from father to son -
- the disease of inheritance, pressed close underneath
his tongue, and he tastes dust - still red, still bilingual.
Real life requests his dreams too, finds his heart bones bilingual
to a fault. And he is his own Brutus, gutted - over thrown
like day nudging night out of the way, whispering underneath
his breath. Every boy is a peasant prince, his kingdom
come down to be only as good or bad as the son.
This is every father's hand-me-down: the future built in history.
It is a shame; it is the truth - their public history
an ocean floor: boy buoyed, boy beaten, boy bilingual
and bare. Words mute. He is not his father's son.
A violent queen long gone left a storm behind, thrown
off the back of death to leave the kingdom
festering, Queen Memory phantom breathing underneath.
"Here is your home," the ground murmurs underneath
his feet, giving red dust lessons in history,
redrawing the blueprint for family, the kingdom,
and yes, the boy. But what if he does not want to be bilingual?
What if the prince wants, dreams, needs to be over and thrown?
Maybe he is the wrong son.
A storm is never just a storm, red, black or bruised; father and son
both know. Intent is only the tectonic vault underneath,
the centuries of movement. Blood and bones get thrown
no matter where the crown rests or where history
threads and twists - the weapon now made bilingual:
life and death, commonly denominated by their kingdom.
The boy's crown is thrown, clangs back through history
shaped like spiral stairs: the son sitting quiet underneath
their bilingual curve - just a new path to the old kingdom.
where people grow up teaching daughter or son
a storm is never just a storm. Storms here are bilingual
and they will take opportunity to bury you underneath
the dust and the thunder and the red, red history.
This kingdom keeps its promise: you will be thrown.
A boy curls dirty fingers on the crown, thrown
for his future, heartbeats a ricochet the kingdom
hears as a national anthem, the outro of history
storming blind blood passed down from father to son -
- the disease of inheritance, pressed close underneath
his tongue, and he tastes dust - still red, still bilingual.
Real life requests his dreams too, finds his heart bones bilingual
to a fault. And he is his own Brutus, gutted - over thrown
like day nudging night out of the way, whispering underneath
his breath. Every boy is a peasant prince, his kingdom
come down to be only as good or bad as the son.
This is every father's hand-me-down: the future built in history.
It is a shame; it is the truth - their public history
an ocean floor: boy buoyed, boy beaten, boy bilingual
and bare. Words mute. He is not his father's son.
A violent queen long gone left a storm behind, thrown
off the back of death to leave the kingdom
festering, Queen Memory phantom breathing underneath.
"Here is your home," the ground murmurs underneath
his feet, giving red dust lessons in history,
redrawing the blueprint for family, the kingdom,
and yes, the boy. But what if he does not want to be bilingual?
What if the prince wants, dreams, needs to be over and thrown?
Maybe he is the wrong son.
A storm is never just a storm, red, black or bruised; father and son
both know. Intent is only the tectonic vault underneath,
the centuries of movement. Blood and bones get thrown
no matter where the crown rests or where history
threads and twists - the weapon now made bilingual:
life and death, commonly denominated by their kingdom.
The boy's crown is thrown, clangs back through history
shaped like spiral stairs: the son sitting quiet underneath
their bilingual curve - just a new path to the old kingdom.