Leopold III

Illustrations by Grace McKenna

I crave some sort of ghostly hereafter,

History is a myth, after all.

My hands swallowed and unswallowed the crimes of my fathers,

Pristine-perfect, I brace for my fall.

What can you tell me about stars in the sky?

Or grains of sand trapped on the beach?

To the painter with a brush: paint flecks the same to us,

Small dots, all scattered like seeds.

I know you regret me. I faked my death at the crime-scene,

Heard what you said, and I’ll hear it repeat.

Me, crisply pressed, at the window well-dressed,

I spread my hands, watch you fall to my feet.

My whimsy untwisted from my throat years ago,

I crave rich, artificial-built greens,

If I can package up profit I’ll do it dishonest,

I’ll replace you all but do so gently.

Your hands sit contorted, knob-wristed and dappled,

Take your pause, take a breath, let it go,

The future came quickly whether you like it or not,

Bite a scream. Freeze to death in the snow,

Cause it’s all margin profit I purport nowadays,

Nothing personal or unpleasant, I swear,

I deny hope and sanctity once granted through talent,

And heft cruelty, my cross to bear;

I prefer long-forgotten morals memorialized,

It’s a damned hard race to the top,

Easy to build, stilted colors and concepts,

All screen-printed, soon forgotten and lost;

And that whimsy you love, your reckless abandon,

Oh, I’ll tear your hope down where it stands,

Shivering and naked against the cold and the sea,

Battered by hourglass sand;

But if it makes you feel better I’m as fake as they come,

They gave me this skin-suit manmade,

I pull up its zipper, stand rigid and sure,

Smile so muscles twitch up in his face.

Artistry arbitrary, we fuck up the hands, sure,

But machine-built things improve every day,

You can tell me about cave paintings from long-ago, whatever,

Whilst I sell the dirt in your graves.

We’ll win. I can promise that, just take your respite,

Accept the loss, bless your art how you please,

Put down the heavy humanness you carry round, stinking,

New body at an age-old crime scene.