Few freaks
have such impeccable taste,
Singing Pagliacci, smoking a Cuban cigar,
And sipping L'Essence de Courvoisier,
As he lowers you into the shark tank,
To feed his hungry pet.
Forget appearances
He cloaks himself in affectations,
And feigned cordiality
But he will take you down at the knees,
And kick your face until he can hide his shoe in your skull
Or put a bullet through your brain,
Before you can ask why he has an umbrella
When the weatherman said
No rain
Cobblepot
A name as Gotham
As Chapman and Wayne
Always dressed to the nines
He drinks the finest wines
But he can humiliate four thugs
Who try to mug him
In an alley
Cut the fools down in a fury
Steel shod umbrella,
Razorblade shoes,
And a gun up his sleeve
Appearances deceive
The definition of The Penguin

Entertain the masses
The *****
The coliseum of the gladiators
I only want to make you laugh
I only want to cry
This face to the world
This face too

Nothing
I'll have nothing and I'll smile
And dance and joke
And act a fool
A jester in the court of kings

Out on stage I make the day
In my dressing room
I cry

I am a ****** up poet
A starving artist
A punk rock Elvis
Sometimes you just gotta go all out
Because your the king
Man
And you just can't help it

Van Gogh died poor
And alone
In a field that was his last expression
He died by his own hand
And it wasn't even raining
When it should have been

I don't even see myself when I look in a mirror
And you don't see what I see when you look at me
You see a smiling lover
Enjoying life though all the struggle
I live life as Pagliacci
A ****** up poet

I put on a great show
And I weep during intermission

I feel
Like retiring to my bed
And lying there
Until spiders come
And cobweb me securely
To the wall I stare at

I feel
Like I’m typecast
As Pagliacci,
Recitar! Vesti la Giubba
Sung ad nauseam
Until a shepherd’s crook tugs me
Through the curtain

And it seems
I haven’t grown tired of losing
My footing while I reach for the summit

And I feel
Like there are only so many times
Someone can tourniquet their limbs
Before hesitantly clutching
To the handle of another departing car’s door

Laughing and loving
Pain grows deep in my heart
But I seem happy

Appetizing morsels of snack food leftovers, jammed down the throats of the gathering’s well-meaning occupants, trapped in place, paralyzed by purchasing power, co-mingling amongst a gossamer of plague ridden staff, exercising their right to a paltry sum, at the cost of worldly dignity.

Tupperware auctioned off at a silent word, while women with crow’s feet crevices compile layers of expensive, foundry concealer, birthing a new, more melancholic Pagliacci, only to be outdone by the next in line.

Sound equipment, purchased over market value, placed on the showroom floor, mechanically regurgitating a playlist of old hits as broken hips slaughter the concept of rhythm and cadence, dancing for their youth, embarrassed by their age.

Late husband’s life insurance, blown on a new make-up line tested on Lassie, bought for the sake of a cost-free gift, which would have the woman’s palm eaten out by a monetarily starved charlatan, rented out on an hourly basis.

Sprayed odors, mixing and merging as they meet on the undersides of veiny wrists, fumigating the stale air, weakening the legs of the participants, dropping them to the floor as sequenced lights illuminate in time with an ancient billboard tune.

Eight o’clock bedtime, difficult to impose, when giddy patrons stay drunk on the bliss of over-spending, knocking off to a land of nod in unmonitored broom closets, clutching at their purchases with the vigor of a lowly man in pursuit of his bottle.

The night slows, crawling in turn with a dead clock as it ticks in place, stalemated, flinching, but not forward, only in place.

Lights leave the room, and silence ensues, the visitors leave, weighted down to a lifeless crawl by their numerous, unnecessary purchases in overfilled, non-recyclable shopping bags.

Fernando, I do sincerely extol thee.
You were as much passionate in symphony
as you were in death, which you faced willfully.
Cursed were the cruel war machines that silenced thee.
But still to celestial heights they lifted thee.
For in great honour at heaven's distant gates,
you became heaven's fiddler at God's request,
to play in courts before the heavenly greats,
in a manner timeless at their own behest.
Fernando Buschmann, the fiddler at the tower.
He that rendered sad tunes in his final hour,
playing Pagliacci at the twilight of life.
Continue to rest in a world void of strife,
until justice for your death we all shall see.