Troy

They lie in the gutter, declaring themselves queens of things nobody wants,

pointing fingers skyward, frigid accusations:

if they could, they would

reduce Aphrodite to a common whore.

These pretentious fools, saturated in the stench

of foul garbage and sewage

flowing like wine from thin lips.

Raging like tornado-spawning hurricanes

reduced to a woman’s name.

Once you rise above the spillway of embroidered rumors,

you see how insignificant

filthy, uneducated, assuming opinions are.

Coating the flint with mud

doesn’t rob it of its power

to spark a fire

and burn it all down.