Poetry: Coronation by Mathieu Gallant

Within wonder, here our golden land lies.

Thrice these three kings, grandly bid by gold sun,

Are, in fairest gold each, coronated.

Gifts by Phoebus graced and Phoebus shielded

That soon are dwarfed twicewise by what follows:

The first will come, welcome, liquid and gold;

In engulfing decadence do they drown.


They lie still upon a precious porce’lain

Carven from false kin, true peril, Phoebe.

Here: right arm’s hand armed with ravenous blade.

And here: left tool, toothful trident that bites

Blue blood oozing blood red: sanctified gold.

For now, first foe of Eleven draws near.

Born of poor brand, present with intent ill.


This foul cuckoo does contend the good realm.

“The fourth wishes forth blessèd fourth baptism.

Oh yes, bring the bastard here before us.

You of noble promise, noble passions possess.

We will honour your will for your favour.”

So falls one outpour more, it too is gold.

“Choke thine rank pores with wealth, thou vile villain.”


All are shorn and crushed and torn and hushed and

Punctured, lacerated, shredded, devour’d.

Acts of the harsh radiance above all.

The one putrid, to earth is now joinèd;

No good entity shall of decay taste;

Putrefaction needn’t a monument;

Dead life and black loam marks these tainted grounds.


Hear here The Bell’s mournful cacophony,

An acknowledgement of cruel intrusion

That does earn detestable perdition,

That does earn a second Hell, worse than first,

Fraught with hotter flames and colder ices.

For none and no other may pervert this:

Single sharpest lustrous day: Shrove Tuesday.

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