Friday, January 9, 2009
The Bad Magician and the Last King of America
The Bad Magician sold a silver throne to the homunculus of god. It caused grease to drip out of the various mouths. It encouraged mercury up the river and into the land cavity and was unborn. The hermes vat was serene with urine and the Last King of America sat in something very much like eggs. "Can you time an egg?" asked the King. "In time," said whatever it was that was rotting in his throat. "In time."
The Last King of America holds rubble in his arms, holds death in his hands the way misers hold a baby, holds the 'morrow in a burnished urn with his remains spilling out onto marble. The Last King of America is seeing a door in a wall in a hole in a car in a plane in a face. He crawls to his finish but stops and turns on his back. He winces skyward. Uneasy lies the head that is the head that lies.
When one thing leaves another must leave as well. The Bad Magician reflects a parallel shadow out of nowhere. Angular, unweighted, the needs of dreams bending light back to the darkness where what isn't born isn't dying. Further evidence of dangerous thinking: he solders old wires to old songs. A pop a hiss a scratch a peal of a gasp of a buckling of a fallen of rubble. When the King goes so goes The Bad Magician. It had to be true.
The Bad Magician was born as a dopamine answer to coded god shibboleth war killer wraith ministers. Born to send sympathetic night shivers to The Last King of America. Inside the head. Impossibly inside. To descend into cranial crevices. To navigate the neurons. To Kick What Makes Him Tick. Secret: The Last King of America is the Forty Year Plan. White for black. White forever. One man is a symptom. Many are the cause.
The Last King of America is roped off in the Forest of Nemi. Incantations are whispered. Incense of rarest bark paints the air fully. The full moon eats the sky as it passes. Rex Nemorensis grips his torch and trembles violently. Eight years of blood for blood. Eight years of The Lie. His turn, only. His turn on the wheel. "I am the walrus!" cries The King. "I am The King! I am Eternal!" The Bad Magician conjures nothing. He watches the stupid old king lurch to the edge of the known world. No horror. No gotcha. No epiphany. Just a stupid old king at the edge of the known world. The Bad Magician claps his hands. Not with a bang, but with a Chimper, goes the life.
Yet another King spies the silver throne. Another King for another witness. Let someone else crawl inside his head and follow Ariadne's thread. Orpheus is busy tonight.
The Bad Magician says goodbye.
Image of the Homunculus of God by mjs...