Prince Harry Naked In A Hotel Prompted Me To Kill A Fly.

Sleep comes easy to the dead,

especially those anesthetised on wooden decks
waiting for the final spray
to wash them away into an awful display
of cocked legs-
cathedral like-
and mirrored heads
resting upside down to the right.
The window sill, home of light, is now the chapel of rest, the chapel’s best readings and graveyard to the flies.
Mr. Sheen will polish up
the wood to a lovely finish.
Cloths will be cleaned with the blood
of the damned attached,
for journey into drain and mud.
Sewers, with their gangway archways
are now the cathedrals.
I killed a fly and this is what I wrote.

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