Way below the surface of a lake, well under the fog and the mist and the frogs and the winter ice that there only shivers in splitters then melts lay the body of Sir Maxwell the Drowned. Here lie the hardend incriminate thing, that ocean of hatred for all of one spring to him given and taken and lost in some way was a memory of mother, the son that she saved.
Yet comfort is now as his comfort has done, this mentioned already of heros. And for the lack of one now he can think, at least that is what it looks like he’s doing; for never would come a more sullen reprieve, this leason he’s lived over and over. (Though once long ago there may have been mention, he’ll say it was luck just to lesson the tention.)
So Sir Maxwell, the Drippy, the Dippy the Dooped, the Floundered, the Fostered, the Formaly Stooped now is here at the lakebed, here layed in the silt; here listening to us make now make fun of his quandry. More suited would we to make fun of his laundry, for him now is soaked to the hilt, to the bone; him now that for now is left here alone.
Above him the light of the last day is waining, his sister that shriek from afar. His mind soon will fail and his will soon found wanting; a wistful mistake, a seeker, a star.
Categories: Matthew Newton