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1.

i will hold my peace when achilles' brooch
bids me
brache, bitch, not a dog more
abusive
a cluster of
offensive
gems of all
the nation / spits / gold and silver
the spit or bodkin forms a very small part of the whole.

2.

"his buddy Patroclus"—

3.

his best-belovéd
i wept,
my blest
you, name stitched
inside your vest
paired // locked

4.

i am not interested in homosexuality.
there should have been a warning.

5.

your body is produced
pettiness &
prettiness together
dallying
in his tents
his grief: dishonour
he intends—
lallies in his tents
he:
valued honor /
life
the war lived
laughed
scratch out the wrong one
rewrite
it right this time
his grief: deceit, self
love

6.

you sit on his feet
guying
the very dignity
your hands make the words

7.

now play him me, Patroclus
a night alarm, arming
a scandalous copy / the root of sickness
ruddy signs
for the whole greek camp

8.

this terrible play

9.

love love nothing but love still more for o these lovers crie oh oh they
die yet that which seems the wound to kill doth turn oh oh to ha ha he so
dying love lies still oh oh a while but ha ha ha oh oh groans out for ha
ha
ha

10.

grace notes such as Helen,
Patroclus
cannot be both erotic and political

11.

your little stomach

12.

a but but crie die doth dying for for groans ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha he
kill lies love love love love lovers lies
o
who will i sing to now that you are dead

13.

in the company of Patroclus
always with Patroclus
the death of Patroclus

14.

an accusation no further
footache
romance-in-the-head
ills, ill-at-ease
rendered in the ripe tones of an injured queen

15.

every corpse had to be cleared away
it was too much to bring yours back

16.

a closed system
fool positive
armour sealed round your body—

17.

play the role of woman
become
masters

18.

you are not for us;
blest knees achilles' grace
another world breezes through the tent
we hear your laughter
ornament, the pin goes in
one speck is left
attachment
dimpled ash / soot spotty
flex
wound which they turn these the so seems out oh oh oh oh oh oh oh
oh o nothing




Charlotte Geater is an editor at the Emma Press. Her poetry has previously been published at Queen Mob’s Teahouse and Strange Horizons. She lives in London. She is on twitter at @tambourine.
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