I remember entering the antechamber
humming to the music blasting in my ear-buds
as the flicker of the fire was eating
I remember how the orange blended
with the sounds of his fiddle, playing
what I think was a Beatles’ rip-off;
fat-finger plucked but gently out of tune.
As usual the emperor was high on meth
and beside him
was yet another consort slurping
on the royal popsicle.
I removed my ear-buds
and from far below I heard
the screams of slaves and servants burning,
that the luscious scent of roast was not from pork.
Nero ceased to play and rose to great me;
he took me by the arm and showed
me from his window
blood in tangerine and said:
“My friend, tonight the city is my circus,
and we can stay at home to watch”.
He served me tongues of sparrow,
as we drank Tuscan wine,
and realized that tonight
was almost better than the cable-news.
Today I host at toads to write a poem from the perspective of the unreliable narrator.
August 31, 2019