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The Moment the King Was In

“The soul is the prison of the body.”—Foucault.After watching a French play, the Dog King at once perceives the Truth: Prisons are not made to keep the maladjusted in, but to keep the righteous out…To correct this diabolical reversal (of proper station, of proper access to the safety of ten-foot-thick walls, of righteous, womb-like layering within the barred onion of the fortress…), the Dog King approbates his own enchainment within the walls of the Royal Panopticon.The masses eagerly await the Day of Royal Immurement, when the Dog King will trade places with the assassins and blasphemers he himself condemned.Crowds push in on the walls of the Panopticon; ironically, none can see over the grand ramparts; none can smell the Royal Perfume as it wafts, one last time, toward the noses of the common people.A clang is heard.Cheering—nothing but cheering for miles and miles…The masses are anxious.Why has immurement been denied them? They imagine their lucky sovereign: He stands or squats, or maybe crouches… He eats a hardy mush, smiling… He is ordered (by his own handpicked wardens, by his own order) to break stones or to carve handicrafts for export to America… He squats to defecate, smiling…A revolutionary leads a midnight march to the Panopticon. Stocky men in breeches storm the ramparts, tearing their breeches on glass-crowned crenellations. Screams inform the night: The Dog King will not live caged, not when We The People must live burdened, free—free to work, to slave, to die, to fuck, to die, to birth, to die, to bring into the world responsibility and sadness and every admixture thereof…The screams taper off as the scene revolves…In the Panopticon’s lowest lavatory, the Dog King commits the ultimate act of enchainment: Slowly, finger by finger, tooth by tooth, the Dog King pulls himself apart and chains himself to the lowest brick of the fortress. None will take him away, not today… The wardens quickly pour the cement… The Dog King, deconstructed, suddenly remembers his unhappy slavery to his throne and, metonymically, to his people… If unhappiness is prerequisite of slavery, and if the Dog King is, in his final, bleeding, waning seconds, finally happy, has he not, in fact, freed himself? Has he not, then, painted himself into the largest prison—happiness, self-will, painting, identity… The words gush from him like teeth. The wardens note his dying words on a chalkboard formerly used to re-train Prussian assassins as butlers—As We The People burst through the door, two minutes too late, we hear, sloppily:“We should have been born a rock, so that we could be broken, mixed with ourself, and poured onto the severed ankles of a Dog King, immuring us, not in our darkest jail, but in our bed—on our softest blankets, blankets as soft as flesh, as beautiful as teeth, so out of context, so soft, like beetles, really…”

The Moment the King Was In

wythe

Joined December 2007

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After watching a French play, the Dog King at once perceives the Truth: Prisons are not made to keep the maladjusted in, but to keep the righteous out…

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