‘Beware the Ides Of March’

In honour of (you guessed it) ‘The Ides Of March’ and my favourite play.


My cronies were adept
at running on repentant swords

I preferred my infamy
in run-on sentences
of third-person propaganda
Even in the wet-backed wheeze
of my final breath
I retained the discipline
to do my kin proud
and turn around to
say goodbye to myself

I required no muse
to compose an immortality
assuring elegy
yet I cannot shirk a nod of gratitude
for how you dangled the phonetic
mastery of this identity
over noble Brutus

Only suicide allowed
a reinstatement of nobility
to the one who introduced himself
with a Brute syllable

I was justified to distrust
the one who thought too much
Such men devour the entrails of
the noble herd made content by
swallowing the spirits of assumed
good intentions

03 15 14


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