Not My Real Face
© Surazeus
2018 02 28
Sometimes when I walk down the city street,
when everyone is out getting their lunch
and stand in lines silently in the sun,
I like to crouch down and spread out my hands,
curving my fingers like claws of the wolf,
and bugging my eyes while I bare my teeth,
then growl, as if I were the scary monster
they like to pretend they are not afraid of,
who stalks them in dreams they always forget,
and laugh when they stare startled at my face,
because I want to be king of the world.
I cover my human face with the mask
that mimics the face people think is god,
but the face I wear is not my real face.
But nobody laughs so I drink a root beer,
while leaning against the library pillar
under the snarling gargoyle carved from stone,
and wonder why people always form groups,
and always choose someone to lead their group,
or someone decides they will lead the group
and kills everyone who stands in their way,
or they hire people to work for their group,
performing vital function in machine
of commerce to acquire wealth from our labor,
but they always like to play the group god.
I wear the mask of kings on public stage
but everyone treats me like the dumb fool,
since the face I wear is not my real face.
We no longer worship leaders of nations
as gods with supernatural powers for good
because every great god who ever ruled
died, though their people though they were immortal,
so now we make movies about superheroes
who perform feats like gods in ancient myths
while we walk about on the hard Earth,
making things with the hunger of our hands,
because we want to avoid crushing death
that destroys every living soul in time,
yet we aspire to be gods we invent.
I prance around upon the comic stage,
mocking the leader who thinks he is god,
though the face I wear is not my real face.
When I make weird face at the pretty girl
who looks like Barbie with long straight blond hair
and eyes clear blue as the infinite sky
she laughs and asks me my name, so we talk
about politics, religions, and movies,
and she asks if she can buy me some lunch
so I accept and we eat beef burritos
while sitting on the bench by the tall fountain
where the bronze statue of some general
stretches forth his hand on the horse of power,
then she kisses me slow, and walks away.
I take the old mask of god off my face
and dip it in fountain water to drink,
so the face I wear is not my real face.
© Surazeus
2018 02 28
Sometimes when I walk down the city street,
when everyone is out getting their lunch
and stand in lines silently in the sun,
I like to crouch down and spread out my hands,
curving my fingers like claws of the wolf,
and bugging my eyes while I bare my teeth,
then growl, as if I were the scary monster
they like to pretend they are not afraid of,
who stalks them in dreams they always forget,
and laugh when they stare startled at my face,
because I want to be king of the world.
I cover my human face with the mask
that mimics the face people think is god,
but the face I wear is not my real face.
But nobody laughs so I drink a root beer,
while leaning against the library pillar
under the snarling gargoyle carved from stone,
and wonder why people always form groups,
and always choose someone to lead their group,
or someone decides they will lead the group
and kills everyone who stands in their way,
or they hire people to work for their group,
performing vital function in machine
of commerce to acquire wealth from our labor,
but they always like to play the group god.
I wear the mask of kings on public stage
but everyone treats me like the dumb fool,
since the face I wear is not my real face.
We no longer worship leaders of nations
as gods with supernatural powers for good
because every great god who ever ruled
died, though their people though they were immortal,
so now we make movies about superheroes
who perform feats like gods in ancient myths
while we walk about on the hard Earth,
making things with the hunger of our hands,
because we want to avoid crushing death
that destroys every living soul in time,
yet we aspire to be gods we invent.
I prance around upon the comic stage,
mocking the leader who thinks he is god,
though the face I wear is not my real face.
When I make weird face at the pretty girl
who looks like Barbie with long straight blond hair
and eyes clear blue as the infinite sky
she laughs and asks me my name, so we talk
about politics, religions, and movies,
and she asks if she can buy me some lunch
so I accept and we eat beef burritos
while sitting on the bench by the tall fountain
where the bronze statue of some general
stretches forth his hand on the horse of power,
then she kisses me slow, and walks away.
I take the old mask of god off my face
and dip it in fountain water to drink,
so the face I wear is not my real face.
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