Walt Whitman Writes Game of Thrones

I celebrate Westeros,

And what I behead you shall behold,

For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to the Iron Bank.

 

I loafe and invite my dragons,

I lean and soar at my ease . . . . observing the spear of Oberyn whirling before, oh fuck, he got eye-ploded.

 

Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, except when they’re actually poison,

I gasp a purple Joffrey breath, and know you like it.

The distillation would intoxicate Tyrion also, except he didn’t even pretend to taste the king’s wine, which in retrospect was a huge mistake.

 

The reek of Theon is not a perfume . . . . it has no taste of the karmic return of the Purple Wedding. . . . it is super nasty,

It is for my mouth forever . . . . I am completely contaminated by it

I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked but still it will be so nasty,

I am sorry, for you had to watch all that shit I made up, and there is no unwatching it.

 

 

Have you reckoned a thousand characters much? Have you reckoned the Seven Houses much?

Have you practiced so long to learn how all the Boratheans are related?

Have you felt so proud to remember how to spell Daenerys Targaryan?

 

 

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all plotlines,

You shall possess the good of the North and King’s Landing . . . . there are millions of confusing genealogies left,

You shall no longer take things at second or third hand . . . . nor look through the eyes of the warg . . . . nor feed on the spectres in Bran’s weirdo tree visions,

You shall not look through Jojen’s eyes either, nor take things from the three-eyed raven,

You shall listen to all crazy internet speculations and filter them from yourself.

 

I have heard what the White Walkers were walking . . . . the walk of the beginning and the end,

But I do not talk of the beginning or the end because who can focus on the eventual dragons vs. ice zombies showdown when Pedro Pascal is strutting across the screen half naked?

(That was a good part!)

 

 

Apart from the pulling and hauling stands Arya Stark,

Swift as a deer, quiet as a shadow, calm as still water,

The lone wolf dies but the pack survives,

(Which is not exactly comforting when the current wolf count is two dead, one missing),

Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next,

Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.

Probably we should have some more Arya episodes then, you all seem to like her,

But sorry!

 

 

Urge and urge and urge,

Always the procreant urge of the Walder.

 

I mind how Mellissandre lay in Draggonstone, such a transparent dark evening;

She settled her head athwart Gendry’s hips and gently turned over upon him,

And parted the shirt from his bosom-bone, and plunged her tongue to his barestript heart,

You all remember what happened then, it involved a leech and a penis, and it is not even close to the nastiest thing I have imagined. .

 

 

 

Tyrion Lannister, an Westerosean, one of the roughs, a kosmos,

Disorderly fleshy and sensual . . . . eating drinking and breeding,

No sentimentalist, just a sexpositionist . . . . no stander above men and women or apart from them . . . . no more modest than immodest, because goddamnit, I will show these boobs if I want to and call it “realism.”

 

Unscrew the side-ties from the dresses!

Unscrew the dresses themselves from the boobs!

 

 

Who need be afraid of the Grey Worm?

(I like sympathetic castrati; it’s a whole thing.)

Undrape . . . . you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded,

I see through the spotless linen and gorgeous embroidery whether or no,

And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless . . . . I am not going to address your curiousity about the Westerosian textile industry,

Or what stain removal tricks keep Daenerys’s white gowns so unsullied.

 

I am the Hound, and the slave.

Agonies are one of my changes of garments.

This pretty much sums up the whole show.

 

 

A child said, What is the winter?

How could I answer the child? . . . . I don’t even know who my mother is.

As Ygritte said: You know nothing, Jon Snow. You didn’t like her

But she was right.

 

 

All goes onward and outward . . . and none of the plotlines seem to be reaching anything remotely like an endpoint,

Nor does winter actually seem to be coming, though people keep mentioning it,

But maybe winter is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

 

 

Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?

I hasten to inform him or her that being born in my world is basically a guarantee to die miserably, and I know it.

 

 

This hour I tell things in confidence,

I might not tell everybody but I will tell you.

 

 

My foothold is tenoned and mortised in crazy high ratings,

I laugh at what you call plot resolution,

Because HBO monetizes the amplitude of time.

Because I was going to finish in seven volumes, and now it will be eight.

(Ha!)

 

 

Something I cannot see puts upward libidinous prongs,

Probably Ramsey will cut them off.

 

 

You villain touch! what are you doing? . . . . my breath is tight in its throat;

If someone is touching here it’s probably going to be incest, or maybe dismemberment. Watch out.

 

Do I contradict myself?

Very well then . . . . I contradict myself;

I am large . . . . I contain multitudes, I mean like serious multitudes, you don’t even know.

 

 

The night is long, and full of terrors.

Missing me one place, just do what Arya does and search another,

I stop some where

or not.

 

 

Kirsten Silva Greusz and Sarah Mesle: Khaleesi




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