It went like this:
I sat on the tall chair while you
went crowning in the valley.
Spanish paper for a fontanelle,
a creamy pate for bedecking.
You had this ‘loyalist’ air, coccyx
wound up like a fist, mouthy with
unfathomables. First it was patron
and then came worse: commission.
You were hardly drink for thought,
with no nails and a hoofy look,
your cats with scraped-off whiskers.
You had nothing for me, even
once I’d seen the baby. Granted
she was pre-monarch, but still semi-
famous, and flouncy. To be honest
I was bored. All this macho pomp
and chair creak, and the clouds
snorting pink bits in passing.
I thought: surely there’s better meat
than a legion of waterfalls refracting.
That’s when the Infanta began
her wailing; some dopey divination
about time and obliquity, draped
over space like an ermine. You all
went frantic, comparing blotches,
measuring furs with blunt sticks
and tweezers. Heaven hath no orbs
like my eyes were rolling. I needed
those sticks for my highchair, truly.
If she’s so lunar, your Infanta, why
can’t she prophesy some structural
integrity? She’s just a lot of loud
and a soiled brocade. Classic baby.
I’m done here, and you should have
known better than to invite me.
I’ve already stripped my seat
down to kindling – so don’t blame me
if the Lord sees fit to launch these
sprigs as arrows, or if comrade
gravity aligns their course with
regicidal intent.