New Poem - Beowulf

Hey.

Here's a new (well, new for non-Patreon folk)  poem.

BEOWULF

The chaos
of the writhing present
is this:

No shadow exists.

Any meter of action,
Whether mired in global friction
Or scrawled inside some antiseptic suburb
Or grunted out
In a airless tradition-territorial,

Will be inhaled.
A limbic frenzy of response will follow.

The object, the analysis of the object,
The rebuttal of the analysis of the object.

It is a beautiful chaos.

Frightened as we are,
We are humbled by the exalted
Equivocation
Each message, each suspicion-speech
Brings.

The past yields no prism of conjecture.
Rather, the most aggressive narrative
Sticks like pitch,
Like ancestral scars .

Grendel was a monster.

Beowulf, his slayer-savior.

So says the tale.

We nod sagely,
For the writers, the orators
Are honorable men.

Yet silhouetted, faintly,
In that puckered scrawl,
(a hagiography made binding
by a millennium of preservation)

Are unwritten details
Which, if said events unfurled
This present time,
Would not rest in un-eddied
Night.

Who creeps
Into a house
of a  grieving mother?

Who kills
A mother
Whose son you've grave-gifted
With her own blade?

Who defiles
The other,
And rather than own
Their brute sentence,
Seeks pity, seeks
Clemency, seeks
Weasel words?

The mask of art,
Kennings,
Cannot eke out sanctuary.

Your tousled hair
And gawky smile
Is not your true face.

Brock Turner.
Beowulf.

Be it
"twenty minutes
of action"
or
Grendel slandered as
"a man outlawed
for wickedness, he must await
the mighty judgement of God in his majesty"

It's pure Anglo-Saxon propaganda.