Lord of Misrule

This entry is part 6 of 19 in the series Une Semaine de Bonté


Page 6 from Une Semaine de Bonté by Max Ernst

In her image the sun made me
round and ornately petaled,

burning and erupting
in feathery plumes. Don’t stare!

I was the Sun King.
Shadows radiated away from me

like the teeth of my enemies
strung on a reckless necklace.

That’s not a mugger’s knife
but a prisoner of earth’s desperate attempt

to pick my lock. I was, after all,
the state. Why must I now perform

for the forgotten and forgettable?
Why have I not limped like a blimp

into the humped clouds? I can’t seem
to shake this legacy of lead,

asteroids roaring in the vacuum
of my farcical heart.

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