He comes every rainy day,
when all the outside is dull and grey -

a glorious smile killed by a frown,
he's Misery Pessimist
the Ever-Weeping Clown.

He peers through the windscreen at me,
breath fogging up the glass,
his hair slimy with greased sweat
his rictus grinning mouth as bold as brass.

Droplets of rain
making him look as if he's always crying
in bone-grinding pain,
smiling that sickened smile -
never knowing who it is he should blame.

I try to ignore him
but he doesn't go away -
he's a sadistic little puppy
that just wants to play.

[Maybe he'll go away if I fall asleep?]

but I can't rest at the car wheel
and besides, he'll just creep

[to the door handle]

What do I do?
Where do I go?
Is there any window where his face won't show?

Those charred eyes, always -

CRYING

[lying]

That bloodstained rictus -

LIKE CHEWING ON BROKEN GLASS

A torrent of angst, a tidal wave of rheumatic arthritis
spreading like noxious -


GAS


I can't laugh at the Clown,
can't laugh into his rheumatically mauled face -

thick oil running down his cheeks,
a face of mutilated insanity,
of a thousand screaming freaks

leaking eyes burning,
desperately pleading to be set free -

I can't laugh at Misery the Clown,
because I secretly know

that Clown is a true reflection of me.

AJ