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'.

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.

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 **** these demons, I see all evil
I **** myself because they're not real people

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

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.

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 *****
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.

She was a porcelain figurine.
Fitted with big bright angel wings.
The arches of her heel lifted high.
The weight of emotions carried tall upon her back.
In mid flight she collapsed and broke a piece of her side.
Heart broken she feared that no one would look at her the same.
Once held high, looked to, to spread a ease of mind.
The burden of others piled high upon her back.
Not once did she notice the weight of her own.
Heartbroken she tried her best to hide her ceramic scar.
Afraid of what everyone would think.
A stone tear suddenly etched beneath her eye.
She tried her best to put the pieces back together, but no matter how she arranged them they just wouldn't fit.
Her wings now a dull off white, Her arch not as high as it once was.
She hid herself where no one would ever think to look.
Over by the street in the gutter where most leaves collected themselves.
It wasn't until she met a sad clown wearing torn clothes.
A dusty old hat. Sitting along the sidewalk of where she hid herself.
A blue tear painted on his upper cheek.
Soon as he saw the porcelain figurine he fell in love.
Collecting her broken pieces along with her hand. He loved her just the way she was.
The definition of her tear changed. Never before has she experienced such kindness from hands that asked for nothing in return.
Knowing only to give never once did she take the time to receive.
She looked astonished as he brushed the dirt from her wings.
Discarding her broken pieces in his pocket, replacing them with a piece of him

Twisted
and broken
Dancing
And limping
Your perfect puppet on strings,
Bowing
And
Bending
In time to your madness;
A tiny porcelain ballerina
Spinning on a pedestal,
As you orchestrate our final symphony.
My sweet,
Scary
Maestro of monsters,
My Conductor of Chaos
And pain,
I adore you-
My darlin,
My puddin.
Bleeding
and hopeful
Here I am,
Still,
By your side;
Your fondest hit
Your favorite toy to squeeze
(the life out of)
Your prisoner in love;
(Your good girl)
Begging for just a little more.
Heave me over the side
Again
Drown me in your molten insanity,
Push me under-
Just.
One.
More.
Time.
To feel the thrills,
The chills,
The danger;
The happiness
Of liberating manic laughter-
To feel the helpless despair
As I perform in your circus.
Here I am,
To beg a bullet
For these lips,
That praise your deeds,
And pray for release,
For a mutual destruction,
A final comedy written in blood.
I guess...
the joke is on me after all...
Right, Mr. J?