The Relic, a sonnet by Adam Common, poet

The usurper writhes in her ermine form
 Across the marble tiled floor. The relic
Rests in its place, happy, relaxed, and warm,
 Contented to be so infidelic:
Because its shape is wrong, wrangled from stone,
 Carved with an infinite affectation,
Then flattered and raised upon crimson throne
 So far above its orderly station.
The thief's hands grasp around its graven root,
 Disgraceful in her low and common touch
To treat its stature as prosaic loot
 Shameful for one who bears its beauty such.
  Alas, stolen, scalped and hawked the relic was,
  Despite its many glaring, awful flaws.

The Broken Back, a poem by Adam Common, poet

And there she was,
Resting on the precipice,
My broken backed beauty,
The stuffing slashed from her seats.

My poor lady,
Her burned out husk invaded;
Stolen away, raped and burned,
And left face down in a river.

She'd drowned.

I'd wept for her.
Knees were grass stained for the trek,
The same amble of the lost
That men often walk alone.

Then I returned.
To find her gone, reclaimed
By the city, the river,
That all at once broke her down.

I cried.

To feel her curves,
That rough leather, cold metal,
Steady, assuring voice
I would never hear again.

And so I raged.
Death to my pale enemy,
That thief in the bastard night.
I'd love to take your love from you!

That's all.

What more to do?
She lays as scrap, broken backed,
In some depository,
Buried with her dead brothers,

And I live on,
Rusting and cracking for her,
Rolling downhill on flat tyres,
That never quite leave the road.