The Clown of Death

The Clown of Death is coming.
He trundles down the littered streets
of cardboard crusts and sewerage treats
with neon crunching beneath his shoes
He can’t lose.
Yet his posture sags and his black wings droop
like smokers’ lungs that have had their day.
Sent their host to a one-man cabaret.
Two shows a night for the worms.
Was that a stomach churn I heard?

The Clown of Death is coming!
His shadowy, billowing costume seems to dance about his awkward frame
His once black pom-poms and coal-dust mane
now have a dash of sugar coating that has made him feel ashamed.
The cotton candy that webs his hair
has brought about such dark despair.

The Clown of Death is coming!!
His shuffles can be heard outside
No need to dress, he has no pride
His gaunt gray face is painted with a Sunday afternoon
His fake nose drips with fake fondue.
He left his car a mile back
Or was it two, I can’t keep track.
The Clown of Death is carrying a bouquet of burning balloons.

His clothes are torn and twisted
His body battered, bruised
The Clown of Death insisted
You leave this world amused

The Clown of Death

Peter Horsman

Bridgewater, Australia

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