how many clowns
can you fit
into your
tiny
mind

before they start
licking off
all their paint
and
*******
from their
many different
*** organs?

and the audience
rushes from the bleachers,
a sounder of hungry swine,
devouring
every puddle
and every pile
from the floor
that was rejected
by the paintedclownsbodies.

and,
eventually,
the hunger,
its madness,
makes famine flower.

there is a layer of soil
cultivated from this scene
of ****** cannibalism.

flies
are the
sole patrons
of this flesh market.

the other patrons
have turned product
and start to turn.

the only spectator left
is you;
the tiny
frail
child
shining
pale
naked
in the stands
with hands
clutched around
their privates.

and when you go
and curiosity brings you
to the center
of the circus,
to the center
of this zoo,
you tare your hand
from the safety
of your privates
and kneel.

you find a piece
of face left,
a paintedclownsface,
and you reach down
and peel back
a piece of the paint
to see that underneath
was nothing.

just clear.