Caffeine and nicotine for Constantine.
Radio signaling When I’m Sixty-four; dreaming again of Frankenstein in ’84.
Some twenty and seven years since, history has put on but a pound or two.
Otherwise this massive slug, a man and monster, saunters forward more.
Two-thousand-eleven: my life yet to mar much; my legacy known to just a few.
Been on tongues since two-hundred seventy-two, will continue to be too.
Lived roughly until retirement age, made myself known, the holy war.
A city was given my name, but time took that after a heathen-culture coup.
My wife and son reeked of immorality. Killed them of course, not too sore.
I am twenty-three, might well be inattentively mixing poetry, history; folklore.
A smirnoff for Karloff, a woman Makar, gaelic poet laureate. It fits, the shoe.
Caffeine and nicotine for Constantine; he was washed up, living on the shore.
The River Jordan, running, we’ll make it there. The Great, he never managed to.
Killing your son by poison and, on your mother’s behalf, your wife by overheated bath,
you couldn’t cleanse yourself, a final baptism in Biblical fashion, do the bloody math.