Francie Lynch Dec 2017

I don't laugh, gawk and point
At one who falls down;
Unless that one's a clown,
And we've plenty to go around.
Crusty's in the Kremlin,
He's got an act with dogs;
Freddie's in the U.N.,
Freeloading from his friends;
Bozo's in a big white house,
And I'm bent with tears laughin'.

Freddie: Freddie the Freeloader, a Red Skelton clown.
Lou Nov 2017

Cherubs play peek-a-boo in slow forming mushroom clouds
Above us; art and war harmoniously pervert nature Dali
Trolls of heaven scoffing at Earth sipping chardonnay.

Peter Balkus Nov 2017

While kings are sleeping,
clowns wear their crowns.

Vyscern Oct 2017

Pick my mind up, brush off the dust
Wait what's this I'm missing a part?
Turn it over there lays a smouldering dart
Flick it off and blow away the specks of rust

Twist my head off, place it inside
Reconnected to my neck for the final time
Flash to the stage, velvet arms wide
Nervous in the presence of grand design

A grander plan I couldn't understand
In prayer to the Devil I clasp my hands
"Please reset the face, such high demand
For just living on a home and residing on land"

Turn to the Heavens I hope you exist
Because its the last place left on my bucket list
Everywhere I go still holds zero hope
And surrounded by people I'm surrounded, alone

I'll fight my way out, only killing myself
Choke another me by whipping out my belt
Turn to a monster, the mirror on the wall
Place a bullet with shaking hands and laugh as the glass falls

Shred my skin off underneath a clear sky
All I smell is blood, my flames never die
The rage that drives me, the fuel in supply
The fact it ends me I will always deny

The only death I see is the walls around me
Closing in on my head is such a bounty
The last time I got lost they never found me
I walked back in because I felt unease

Finally I embraced it, now we are one
If my words are bullets then my fists are the gun
One follows the other, when you're knocked down cold
I laugh at myself and condemn that soul

A tremble of the hands indicates an animal
The smile on my face painted for the carnival
Makeup smudged crying against the door
I turn around and walk because I walk no more

My heart is a nade with two seconds left
The pin was pulled when you stole my breath
I felt the pain of it through my chest
You gave me reason to keep killing the rest

Every day I wake and sling my crossbow
Because when I'll see another me I can never truly know
I kill these demons, I see all evil
I kill myself because they're not real people

Whit Howland Aug 2017

Your circus friends
the roustabouts trapeze girls
and all the other clowns

they've seen the light
and that's why they'll never call
and you know they'll never write

because of this
you swim in pity

to the joy of thousands
of  hollow fans

Whit Howland ©2017

Whit Howland Aug 2017

No matter how hard I sweep
the spotlight always slips away from me

No matter how hard I scrub my face
wash my clothes
I'm always rough and shabby

And I've blown so many times
into my dented horn
but I've never
hit that high note

Though never fear
my droopy lips
my hang dog frame

will always hide
the mirth and laughter

every time I see

life's boot wind up
to kick me
in my britches

Whit Howland ©2017

A work in progress
samuel nathan Aug 2017

In the faded light
I hear the wands light wrap:
Tap Tap Tap
to the far left,
and to the right,
the orchestra to surround.
Strings tight, tuned just right
poised to recite
with all their might
some mad composer's plight.
But, frozen in this moment of incite,
three clowns among the crowd
colorfully crowd my sight.
One looks on, one looks down,
one seems enticed by the sound.
Why? Whether a part of the night
or just happened to be around.
Then, as the music takes flight,
there is a fierce feeling I cannot fight
that, despite
my buffoonish frown,
these fools, these clowns,
and I
are most alike.

Inspired by John Singer Sargent's "The Rehearsal of the Pas de Loup Orchestra at the Cirque d'Hiver"

How they fake
How they copy
How they fear
How they dream scared dreams in tears.

How they drink from bored mugs
How they live like slugs
How they make money cigarettes
How they pray for money bags

How they crave recognition
How they bend for the system
How they brag ignorance
How they weep romance

How they shove it up their asses
How they're continuously embarrassed
How they play the game
How they never blame

How they praise intuition
How they preach superstition
How they form their private cliques
How they corporate religion´

Will this joke ever end?
Sorry, no, I will not bend.

Oh words, a vile pit of clay to be formed for each guest they meet.
Shall our digits press upon them in this way or that as a creaght
Of thoughtless claws within a lying dainty love of the gravest making.
Let not these words be the reason that we are forsaken.

I form out of the clay a form of an empty skull.
Yet has not this skull a tongue in its hull
Like a politician who drowns out the emptiness of its head?
One whose reach would circumvent God himself - as if the almighty were dead.

But my skull says NO! Good morning my sweet Lord!
Thou, my most highest idea, have mercy on this – my gourd
And tell us how to oust these screeching clowns.
I see the good book inside this face, tubes of you and other pointless nouns.

A Politicians’ speech - as empty as an empty skull full of worms
Whose bone is worthless to all but its breeding.
Watch them – never listen – watch their tongue as it squirms.
These people only see words as how they can be used to be misleading.

How absolute this knave is who speaks from a card.
An invocation made not by pure thoughts but infiltrated by lard
Greasing the mind into inclusion with nothing but simple sounds.
With hair and makeup and clothing – and the empty skull - they are the clowns.

Just an expression of my disdain for politicians.
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