DRUMBEATS

Drumbeats

This is about a boy. He is a monarch in his way, a freak in the others way. You cannot like him, he promises. I gifted him the bullangells in yesterday's dreams, for him to have company. He can't grow; he can fly. He does fly, from me, from you, from everybody. One day I will write about him.

The fowl sleeps on the last rays of an orange sun,
An effervescence of light, immobile-
A black-eye purple traced childishly with a dwindling interest,
A picture book of bizarre dreams left for a blank child to see…

On a green velvet leaf, a dethroned god waits,
Drunk on tears for an unquenchable thirst.
The bullangells wake and close in, to worship his rusted days,
A dull energy of drumbeats and a handful of frozen blood flakes-
Dreamily, the monarch wakes,
Orange on his eye's horizons.
A hunger flames on the corner of his mouth,
Wide-awake, he rushes, eating with a maggot's greed
Himself in and out and again.
The bullangell weeps -'tis a bizarre sound-like a child stuck midst laughter tears.
He eats still, the greed growing-his fingers, his arms, his soul.
Blind now but to his want, he eats, the monarch as in whole,
The bullangells cheer, egg him on with the dull drumbeats of their giant feet.
Till daylight rips a hole in his meal, a gaping distance in his senses.
Now the mirrors wake, where the bullangell frolicked,
A muse on their stony stare,
A mocking stillness as the monarch squirms and watches his jewels fall,
A nothingness, a no good man, a eaten crown and a broken heart,
His territory lost, the monarch flies again,
Bullangell scream on the end of the day he follows-misfit and a freak.