- Vol. 10
- Chapter 05
THE EMPEROR WEARS NO CLOTHES
Lying right in the middle of the world,
the Emperor wears no clothes.
And yet the pride is omnipresent,
on his face, round his claws, in the breath
he exhales, mesmerising his compliant
and adoring populace.
‘Pink’
being the operative word in his being
― of course the Emperor is
In. The. Pink. Or so he honestly thinks.
Who would dare to object, or
to put forth a different map?
His empire is great, his revanche righteous;
all else is subaltern, less than nothing.
No matter that his brain is founded
on an Eighteenth Century OS
with a coding grossly out-of-date,
no matter that blood flows like rivers
after fierce torrential rain (bombs fall like rain),
no matter the howling of babies or
the freezing-to-death of the old and infirm,
the Emperor’s faith in his destiny remains.
Even though his eyes are so small,
so out-of-place on his puffed-up head,
the ferocity, the determination,
the flexing of muscles is always
an absolutely engrossing parade.
THE EMPEROR WEARS NO CLOTHES
Pity
those who have to go through the
‘liberation’ the Emperor has promised:
there is no exit, no other world
beyond this colourful frame.
Apples, walnuts or grapes, even
the taste of ham ― all will perish,
a mere chimera filling the dreams
of the millions who are displaced.
This is a dark place, despite the blinding light
emanating from the Emperor’s body.
Whatever angle it is looked at,
the curse has robbed the world
of its conditions of possibility.