A schoolboy in a baseball cap
tugs the front of his shirt
sweat drips into his lap
the sun is merciless
It is the objective King,
the mother of the Earth.
It’s anger will destroy,
it has the hands of Yaweh.
It has the eyes of Allah.
On the playground,
obscured by the waves of heat
drifting from the black pavement
Dark shapes churn
Fly down slides.
Blooming in the gut,
the suburban horror.
(Jesus deliver me from pain)
(Weaken the Sun)
The sky turns orange
then deep blood red.
The sun will expand (he thinks) it will cover the Earth.
We will be one with the star,
empty and dark
and cold.
Cold.
It grows black, the sky.
The tent behind is glowing
with artificial suns,
(We really believe we can play God).
Pushed by misunderstood forces,
a tragic approach across the black top.
(look, he’s playing with the other boys)
His shirt is dangling about him
like a veil
he is so thin
so thin and so small.
He feels tiny,
next to the bigger peoples.
He believes when he grows older,
he will feel less tiny,
and he is wrong.
(Hey look who it is)
begins the other God
the collective enterprise
of jeering and sneering children,
the subjective King.
The eyes of Yaweh.
The hands of Allah.
They are not separate things,
they are one black shape.
They are red eyes,
and sharp teeth.
In memory,
they have faces,
but now
they are eyes red
and teeth sharp.
The sun is gone,
it is black night.
The sun, it protected
It wore a badge.
They could see
in the sun.
At the tent
wine is sipped
from floating glasses
they bathe in their light
like rich men
in Gold.
His hat is stolen first,
then the name is called out to him,
(Mutie)
because he is afraid to speak.
(Marky the mutie)
is snarled.
There is a certain freedom in darkness.
The Objective King does not watch
we are concealed
and the moon is a great keeper of secrets.
It is that night,
he learns,
he can do anything in the dark.
It is that night,
he decides,
he is a creature of dark.
The moon is the
Chosen King
The Hands of Jesus
The Eyes of Jesus.
