Ziplock Child,
by William Lanstone

Sky surging celestial,

Height hoarding inhumanoid,

Brazen raised deity of forgone days

Erased from heaven and hell, immiscible

With sensibility’s ideals,

You alone unfold, unreal

In modern mythophobia.

 

See here the Pale Maiden’s hand

on a lipstick brand icon, weaving worthlessness

among the masses, masquerading as meaning,

in all apparent essence unchanging, see her

silver shinning eyes on the blackened screen

Of a teenage tissue wielding torturee.

 

Or the Archer Afar loosing an arrow

To soar through the smoke-soaked sky

Unto an urban swarm, pointing to a subway

For a pension swung people on a Sunday, see him

Driving the nail of obedience upon the air

And swiping cards at the market square.

 

See the Goat Thing, charging the nearest wall

With a spoon to chunk the concrete, blasting

Fire and glass like a babbling blacksmith, hammering

At his own heart with a blistered hand, see his

Steel basket drawn long through stone and sand

To grovel for the gaze of a better man.

But greatness, clearly, never saved a soul.

His majesty miraculous escapes unceremonious

Like a common trickster through a trapdoor, 

Fleeing gleefully from oh so secular lucidity. 

 

The last electric echo of his everywhere words

Is the youth squeezed chords of a momentary monarch

With a ziplock bag bunched at his crown 

Decreeing from the playhouse roof,

‘Look at me, I am king Zeus!’.

Julia Koh - María