1805 c/o Steven J Fowler

Poems about Napoleon are a better letter to a framed structure,
not a stature of the French letter, with water all red rubber rhyming, and leaking, pregnating.
There where mensur scars to keep on cropping up, sabre duels
and victories endlessly to the glory of the French.
The lords were bon, ever returning to a wife’s disappointing rumours
and backing Egypt’s hot pony, often shifting, always winning.
But back pain, however hospital, would not hear him, whomever he wanted, for dinner
and victory after that.
Too much then the emperor in his meals, pressing the Bonapartists spilling downward,
nose down, thumb on the guard, sabre to the groin.
Dark matter across Europe, the strangler sunk by our hero with more to follow.
And now wars are important, they found that free renditions were better than nothing.
It is easy to describe the long work from freedom where it walked a deepweb deathmask
and horse blood necked by their constant duels.
A worked nurse never tires is what the people’d say, answering the glove
with a knife in the belly below vision lines.
On a French farm it sought a way it brought in the dead violence
in a port sort of way, liver picking and spoiling.
In a fight anyone way, in a men like fighting way and unashamed way,
and still unprepared for that awful retreat, they were really cold.
Almost too cold, unable to stand or sleep. Unable to stand it.
Then awful handfuls of blue brains, the matter unassociated with him really,
with his dignified portrait, the dying, screaming, weeping scaled men on grass,
more fit to stand than sit in blue.
Those who flee defeat as a grand gift in the human head between two fingers in perspective,
well they are those that the rude Russian will obey in the future,
but for now boat splinters sinking.