The King laughs when I speak of our “relationship.”
He has no relationships. He fucks, he kills,
sometimes buys, mostly steals.
His family are moons: they look nice in the sky.
The prince is a clone with less charm.
And the word is funny in itself, old-fashioned,
like the diagnostic terms he finds amusing
until he kicks me out and gets to work.
(Whatever he does is called working.)
When he dines with his barons, I do
my main act: whinily reciting
top-secret movements of the foe
on all the frontiers; plots, debts,
and ill-advised liaisons of the barons.
Who sweat, look dumb, and then (except for those
dragged out) go on carousing as before.
What infant said the truth shall set you free?
If you want to know what truth does, look at me.
