Through Traitor's Gate
I went straight for the Ravens,
The guardians of all of England,
Who carry the dead to the next world
And break the karmic cycle.
They preserve, at least, in their decorous pomp
By the tribute poppies in the bone grass
Some kind of order
Tho they may, in fact, bite
As the only sign of their presence attests.
Looked after by a raven master,
There's Chaos and Henry,
Harris and Poppy,
Edgar and Poe kiss as we pass
Like two twin rays of God.
Georgie and Jubilee grip the poles
On the stone steps where guilt
Or innocence was announced,
To the spacious tower where lions
And discontent to the king was housed.
I asked them if they had anything
Interesting to report
But they only groomed their wings,
Looked at me wearily.
They only worked here.
But Georgie's wings were gesticulating.
Why are you still here?
Jubilee with vigilant brow affirms.
In fact, they are baby stroller raiders,
Pull up irrigation lines for laughter.
I told them that humans don't like their toys
Toyed with like 'at, and at that
Georgie throws open her beak
But only offers a weak
Confession of an accused elite.
The Ravens remember
The scaffolds that built
The scaffolds, on down to
The present day, all of London
Under construction once again.
It's always been that way, for tourists,
Conscription to blood-thirst services,
The tarot card staves and silver armor
Curiosities of king's sword pomposities,
Horse tails roped into a knot.
They still subdue the modern tourist,
Especially the Tudors who, by the way
Still rule, if hearts and minds still count
Now that the menagerie lions
Have gone the way of property scrolls
And the cast-iron plunders
Of dragon and lion iconographies
Were melted down in the balance
Of the coin press that oppressed
With oppressiveness on the premises.
There's unicorn memorabilia,
Knights Templar maces as portable
Obelisks for kings and hierophants,
The crown jewels displayed in felt with
All possible implements of torture.
The Ravens stay on the t-shirt.
There's a clock above the vestry
So that every prisoner can see the time
If not the brown Thames one last time
Where white swans still swim.
