Karl Koweski

upping the irons

by the age of twelve
my bedroom was wall-papered
with Iron Maiden posters.
Eddie in every guise,
my crown jewel being
Live After Death,
Eddie busting out of a grave,
corpse musculature straining,
stringy white hair streaming
away from his skeletal face.
lightning strikes the hinge
securing his skull cap.
the poetic couplet engraved
on the tombstone
introduced me to the
literary cosmic horror
of H.P. Lovecraft.

I remember fondly the
door-sized poster from
Seventh Son of a Seventh Son.
the occult overtones
titillated my young mind
already simmering with
the writings of Aleister Crowley.
the poster illustration depicts
Eddie seated at a desk,
demonic candle burning
to his left, angelic candle
casting light to the right.

I purchased that one
with my paper route money
at the local flea market
along with three Chinese stars
from the ninja gear booth.

every poster was titled:
Phantom of the Opera,
Aces High, Piece of Mind.
Stranger in a Strange Land
with the iconic Eddie
portraying a mash-up of
Blade Runner and
the High Plains Drifter.

these posters and so many
more were procured at the
August Fest, a celebration
of dodgy carnival equipment
and deep-fried junk food,
the highlight of my summer.
every poster was a prize
for busting a balloon with
a dart at a dollar a pop.
Number of the Beast
appealed to this devil-
loving Catholic boy.
Two Minutes to Midnight,
Flight of Icarus,
Somewhere in Time.
Eddie brandishing a cutlass
and a Union Jack as
The Trooper.
Can I Play With Madness?
Powerslave.
all these images supercharged
my hyperactive imagination,
horrified my mother,
perplexed my father.
when my school buddy, Cas,
stopped by to fire up my
newly purchased Nintendo,
he took in my shrine to
this mysterious Iron Maiden
and their monstrous avatar
and asked if I had 
any of their albums.

we looked at each other,
blankly, for a moment.

albums?
Iron Maiden’s a band?