Solus Rex

An Ode, belatedly, on the Coronation of King Charles III

After B Jonson

The crowd presses upon the abbey;

some shout, some weep, some gawp in awe,

while others give vent to their envy,

and air hangs heavy with the acrid

stench of teargas and resentment.

*

Few have words truly to express the lack

of meaning and feeling they so keenly feel.

The absence of import of this pomp

puffs them with hot and vacuous pride

till they are fit to pop for all the bubbles

of thought inside them that go unexpressed.

*

The bawdier folk belch and break wind and sound

their vuvuzelas from the rooftops.

A scent of cheap ketchup and singed hotdogs

lards the suburban air with rancid smoke

to please the pagan gods who revel in excess.

The pubs disgorge a mass of seething flesh

at chucking-out into the gutters

 of this land. For this whole country,

for sure, is going, going down the drain

and for a song, they mutter, sotto voce,

as eggs, bacon, and fried tomatoes sputter

in a pan, and bunting blusters about

the garishly turned out turrets of the town.

*

Voices remain mute in their tacit consent

and Apathy reigns. And not one single

finger’s lifted. The cameras of the world

unite to focus on the king. London

is decked out in the colors of television.

The radio dial’s tuned to naught else.

None google any other thing,

as fiber-optic wires convey

the empty message undersea

to foreign realms. As the tap-tap

of telegrams once bore the word

of dying grandpa to a queen to be

off on a cruise ship half a world away.

*

There is an eerie silence as the crown

is lowered on the monarch’s holy balding pate.

Awe, anger, envy, disgust, contempt, and

disregard conspire to utter

one vast collective groan. The sightless goddess

whispers a word into the king’s good ear

that strains in vain to heed Vox Populi.

“Bliss is no longer furnished by the heavens alone

but can be bought by all online on Amazon.

Britain is back in business better than ever before,

a beacon to its empire as in days of lore.

The light that beamed into our collective living room

now’s shed direct into our souls, dispelling all the gloom

and sin that festers there. All doubts are swept away.

The dark night of the soul’s now clear as sunny day.

Lust, blood, greed, theft, slaughter, and ravishment

now give way to the sweet and innocent

Edenic joy brought back as farce in multiplayer games.

TV and fiction for young adults fan the flames

of adolescent fantasy but do less harm

than new-born lambs a-skipping on a country farm,

or than this joy at witnessing a new king crowned.

Let’s lift a glass or two. Let sorrows be drowned.”

And, in a drunken stupor on this crisp and holy day,

I watch the scales of justice descending from the sky.

The chain that binds God’s realm to earth so it don’t fly away

comes clanking down about my slumbering head. A far

cry from the days of old when justice was obeyed. 

The scales are tipped now by a slightly tipsy dame

and held on either side by comely beaming maid:

Her daughters, Fairness and Rule of Law, fame

and celebrity the order of this age, posing for shots,

as all around the social fabric frays and rots,

are dressed in hand-me-downs from charity stores

and yet are keen to do their bit to spruce up the parade

and put, once and for, all to shame the bores

who them to follow clear instructions bade.

They ply their way with charms, wit, favor and grace,

while their less wicked youngest sister, Peace,

trundles in melancholy mood along behind the royal train.

Dressed like a Goth and pale as dead of night,

swearing she’ll fight the lot of them with insane

fury ‘til the world is properly put to rights.

A line of tanks and lorries bearing nukes

winds slowly up behind, thanks

to the panhandling of jet-setting dukes.

The Minister of Injustice watches this grim

Trinity parade along the musty aisle.

Allows herself the rare indulgence of a smile

at the expense of these deserving poor. Dim

as the candlelight and hallowed vaults that blot the sky,

these brittle subjects hoist the new king shoulder high,

tottering on a wooden throne, wearing a paper crown.

The mistress blindly gropes her way tugging her daughters’ tails.

Furies and Fates flit in the flying buttresses and hiss

at the passing train. Freeze into gargoyles should anyone look their way.

‘His not to be the King of Hearts,’ the whisperers go,

‘When Diamonds and Clubs are trumps’. And diggers

bid on their run of spades that go back to the days

when Adam dalve and Eve spun gossip in the Sun. 

The oracle bones are already downcast and bode not well.

*

Folk struggle here on earth to find a place to rent;

yet there’s still room in hell for more folk to be sent.

Food may be scarce and folk are forced to plead;

there’s plenty though for all the worms that feed

on food that’s canned in coffins lowered in the loamy soil.

The king of clowns totters atop his throne,

clutches his orb in shaky arthritic hands.

A nation that struggles to tear itself apart

is bound docile together at his feet. The king

seated as if upon the bog over the stone

robbed from the Scots, stubborn beneath his throne.

* 

A ghastly wail goes up across the misty lands

of these benighted isles. That it has come to this.

A chorus of banshees mourns the opportunity missed.

The fires of revenge are fanned;

the bonded laborers of yesteryear rise from the sand

in which their heads are mired, ready to rally now.

The folk troop out of tailor’s, hairdresser’s and betting shops.

Plumbers, and carpenters, and sparks down tools and march,

bite lips, ready to ride the hunt towards the true

light of their dark desire. Lenses are capped and cameras

packed away. Selfie-stuffed cellphones turned off for the night.

As sleeping media await the sunrise of another day.