The King by SB Wright

first published in Tincture Journal 5, March 2014


Sun Wukong
was my first

No journalist jesus
with his undies
on the outside.

No dark defender
of the city's
status quo.

It was . . .

philosophy lite
on a weekday

a broomstick
to a seventies
pop tune.

His journey
to the west
gave us cloud surfing
and Buddhism

...before Tenzin.

He was a larrikin
in yellow skin

before chip shop
owners and
card playing
brought us to hating
those like

It didn't matter
back then;
the colour of his skin.

He was irrepressible,
the King.


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