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Today they call him Beelzebub,
lord of the flies, high-ranking demon
ward of gluttony and pride, and deemed
the adjutant to Satan, dark lord of us all.

To me, though, he was Baal, sweet
lord of grain and plenitude, of rain and
mighty feats, a Philistine whose way
with words caught hold the ear of
jealous kings. In armour bronze, they
marched to Ekron, to our city fair, they
felled our walls and temples, burned the
olive groves where Baal and his disciples,
I among them, met in secret counsel, his
dispellants we would learn. Repel them he
did not, but let them drag our lord to their
harsh failing lands, demanding that he
use his cursed magic to reverse what
they had made with bubbled,
closed minds.


And this he did, my sweet lord
Baal, he popped them, one by one,
restoring clarity to vision scaled by enmity
and self-declared divinity; the people in the
fields they saw him first, their grain replied
with multiple abundancy and next the
merchants found their wares swift
flying from their booths—it’s Bab-El
opened once again, they cried, the
holy Gate of God, praise Baal, aleluia,
all praise to our Lord Baal!


Who killed my lord for his
good works, I cannot say,
for jealousy has ears that
stretch across millennia, the
demon vice possessiveness
roams free and undetected
in our bubbled minds today.

They sent his body home to
us in rags; by then the flies
were feasting on his heart
and spleen; the mockers
had their way—oh look, haha,
it’s Baal, lord of the flies!


The demon of the now
and then that calls itself
the dark lord isn’t real;
oppressor of the spirit light,
discourager of words, it offers
up depressive prayers that
medicate but never heal; in
pendulum she swings and
thinks himself both clever
and magnanimous in gloom.
If Baal were here—indeed,
he is—the true beseech to our
kind popper, Lord of Bubbles,
might be said like this:

Dear Baal, If I can’t be
your time and space and
bounce upon your springs
and steal your sexuality, I’ll
tell you what you feel and think,
a copier, opinionate, and if I can’t,
I’ll be the rug, pro bono, ‘neath your
feet, sweet writhing, I shall flatten
like the sole fish bottom feeder
that I sold in market once to you;
just do not leave me here entombed,
I pray, oh Baal, horned deity of plenitude,
inside this bubble head where fend I
must these nasty yapping foul-faced,
screeching, solar/lunar moods!

©Elaine Stirling, 2012