by Jacob McArthur Mooney
for Michael Bates, Prince Regent of Sealand
I am the prince of a pirate's clutch of paper,
plucked from the shucked off vestments of Empire.
Squatters rights will set your bones. Relax.
Knit a flag. Turn your music up real loud.
It's inside us all to be ridiculous and kings.
They will come to take the island that my father
took from them, the island that they cobbled out of pure
army ugly, then pushed off the edge of British waters.
At the Micronations Conference, we proctored
our relations. Everyone agreed to recognize
ambassadors. Trade relations were established
with a commune in Kentucky. We ate cake to celebrate.
Say the word and slip your citizenship. Be loose
or libertarian, uncoil the go-fuck-yourself inside of you
for borders. Produce an heir. Make the papers.
Blather you way into wars and cult support.
I live on the mainland. It rains every day.
My father's left for Spain. A fire burned for weeks
with no one there to put it out. The courts are cooing
for our novelty. Seagulls shit on our deck.
They will take my island, preserve its name
in comedy, in the smirks of London papers.
The wings of Britannia will open up above us.
They will bury us in leaflets and logic and The End.
