Who are you, Beowulf?
An old soldier stood at the door
I was a noble warrior, he said
King of the Geats, defeated just once – by death
In my youth, I sailed across fish-pasture
To the land of the Danes
To Hrothgar’s renowned mead hall Heorot
Half-emptied by Grendel’s gluttonous murder spree
A night-terror who hacked dreams into corpses
I burst Grendel’s arm out of its unholy socket
He hobbled home broken in torment, bled to death
That night, I shared the moonlight with my bed balm, beautiful Bøsset
A blue-eyed beefcake, my blissful bodyguard
Pulsating penises stabbed passionately between oiled thighs
A fierce thrill of white sea spears spitting into the dark
His leathery reek of sweat sticks to me still
After I decapitated Grendel’s mother in the mere
Bøsset tutored me in the gentle intimate trust of fisting
Seven days before my fight with the dragon
Eye-torrents doused the splinters of his funeral pyre
My heart burnt to hell before the worm had its chance
Denied restful sleep, yet determined to die undefeated
His grave desire reignited the fate of my ambition
Until Ragnarök, we shall fight the same battles
His lovely name like a heróp tattooed upon my tongue
© Julian Yaqub 2026