Self Portrait (35)

I’m a demented jester and I spend too much time with the free love queen and her peasant zombie. I bend over backwards, stretch and sweat and make sure their pleasured. The king, having loved my dirty jokes, follows me around everywhere or has a bird message me from the sky with news he wishes to tell. The king is great, I know. I can go anywhere and do anything with him. I have learned to hide from the queen—or at least from time to time—because here, in the world of recreation, the king and queen compete closely. I tip my hat to the queen and bid her farewell. I wish to see the lord with his green thumb out in the garden. I fetch a few jokes to tell and run down to the poppy fields. The king’s scoring pods with his peasants and eating raw opium off of the plant. I bow and say, “hello.” He excitedly laughs at just my presence and says, “Of all the world of recreation, there’s the writer’s circle, the musician’s corner, the fashion models—all and whatever—but nothing beats my jester, me and my dope, or my free loving wife. We three will reign forever, dark jester.” “Or at least your hens and chicks will.” “Let’s smoke, then. To my hens and chicks!” They soak a few rags in opium and go upstairs to cook it. They smoke and the jester never keeps his legs still, chatting with the king and their best peasant: the zombie—a competitor they keep close at hand.