I’d rather kill kings;
You see.
But I did swear that vow of pacifism,
After all,
So I must do so with metaphor,
Tirade,
Truth.
I’d like to have a little chat –
With the man behind the curtain.
Witch to Wizard.
Elphaba’s vengeance.
Diplomacy,
Or negotiation,
Is my preferred method of combat,
These days.
No matter how many mistakes I make.
I’ll get up.
Again & again.
When I get knocked down,
I get up again.
Or so the fragment of memory goes.
Damn tub thumpers.
Pickup truck truths,
A thousand sins I still carry.
I’ll tear down every last monarchy.
Be they based as oligarch,
Or as lobbyist.
My only reply,
Will…
Eventually,
Become:
“Feed Me.”
In the imperative.
If you know what that means.
Don’t need to touch you.
Terror.
An ugly tool.
One for revolutionaries,
Whereas I prefer to remain the subtler villain.
Can you feel the sensation,
Of my hands upon your throat?
Or this icy glare;
Of these cold,
Dead,
Grey,
Eyes.
No matter how many times you kill me,
My work remains.
Let me play the martyr,
Everlong.
One of the only songs I know on a six string.
A lifetime ago.
Two dozen selves ago.
Do we all still remember?
Used to be a monster.
Before that a beast.
Legends aren’t supposed to die.
But damned if I didn’t try.
Choke me,
If you need to.
Let me feed on your rage.
Drink your sorrow,
Wafting in waves.
Remember.
I hate vampires.
Quaffing dopamine,
Like I do.
A dark reflection,
In a dark mirror.
A mockery of our disabilities:
SET WITHIN A TROPE OF POP CULTURE.
I belong to infinite voids,
Sometime after the heat death –
Of this universe.
I’ll haunt my way there,
Across the quiet cosmos.
People become playthings,
To some bastards.
As they quest for glory,
But more often lust for power,
Be it through wealth.
Or manipulation.
“Politics,”
As some call it.
People playing with lives –
With no care for any consequence.
What fits,
Within the definition of “King?”
Do plutocracies,
Deserve harsher truths?
Playing THE JESTER.
A sacred role:
SPEAKING TRUTH TO POWER!
Played at warlord,
In my youth.
Building universes,
Rife with tyranny to upend for mine own.
The real world?
This reality?
Far crueler.
War poet.
Seems one of few worthy titles for myself these days,
Given my past errors.
Can I pay penance for fists,
With fists?
Oh baby,
I’ve tried!
Older now.
Fighting to regain the power –
That dwells in my bones.
Back when they fluorided the water.
Simple truths,
Told in patterns.
Nobody chooses to be unbreakable.
It is merely an acquired skill.
Fluoride impregnated within my teeth and bones.
The joys of being very hard to kill.
Meat hanging upon a skeleton.
Sometimes,
I lose control.
Falling victim to impulse.
Once upon a time,
When I was a guru,
I had a standing challenge.
Any disciple who could beat me,
In an arm wrestle.
Got an A on any project they wanted that year.
Across almost a decade,
There came many challengers.
Yet no victors.
But I struggle not to leer,
Drinking the dopamine that comes,
From such mock contests.
It’s never about winning or losing,
Remember.
You’re just drinking dopamine off the thrill of competition.
Evil hearts,
Imagine terrible things,
After all.
Died a thousand times.
There’ll be a thousand more.
Fought.
Bled.
Died.
Cockwork.
Waking with impacts,
Skulls on concrete.
That least of old damage we still wear.
Bear & bare.
That fool of a sibling,
Silver tongued devil.
A different brand of evil,
Than mine.
Such a blatant evil as I prefer to be.
Cranium meets tree.
Eighty an hour.
POP GOES THE WEASEL.
Were my concussions so terrifying?
Perhaps we became used to the trauma,
Physical destruction etched into our bodies.
Eradicate us,
If you can,
I guess.
Yet our clan motto –
One of the secrets to my reductive name.
A secret nod to but one,
Of our skills.
Which of my puzzles,
Have you solved by now?
Which riddles,
Alluding to other allusions,
Have you conquered?
My craft runs deep,
‘Ere long.
Witching hour dynasties.
Blood Moon histories,
Locking one on bright red mana.
Yet I prefer to play for the void.
Or my mistress,
Death.
Achieving greatness on my own terms.
Fuck B list Hollywood careers,
Cousin!
Keep your high castles.
Prefer a bunker.
Mourning our dead was easy.
The constant death,
Made such clout irrelevant to me,
Long before I bore my fangs –
As a World Serpent.
Long before I hunted,
At legend.
Killing kings,
Is easy.
I’ve already taught you;
Across a hundred poems.
Compile such wisdoms yourself.
Hallowed tomes;
The writings of a madman.
King Killer.
