Wednesday, October 19, 2011

Turn the Sound Down

Where is the morbid clown found
you wanna say in the ground but
pond fronds bob in the Tule fog
your hand on your scapular
beneath thin cotton pique
and thick white undershirt
hoping that chipboard and
cheap wool patch work

Turn down your mirrors
dim them, those robes and cassocks
never wanted it, wanted that
can't you just plan a scam to end all brat frats
unspoken clown man
not funny at all
your leg bigger
my hand small

the morbid clown isn't found
that's the whole problem
the hardening pretzel
so fragile as to be broken
to break, to fall, or be pulled
in a million directions:
north, south, east and
as far as 
we are the best 
we know there was

so gather 'round, mopeds resound
kettle drum of lost miracles
cauldron of cackling mounds
the glass eyes so real
still judging judges
pained & painted faces 
grimace or a frown
sick as mortal sound

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