When did the dance end?
Worm on the ruined carpet
an hour before Oscar choked
to death on a bowl of pasta
the argument got heated
from the tequila
and his particular brand of machismo
got lost on me
because it’s not
even a worm it’s
a moth larva
I come to the forgotten house
and not to lose my resolve
nor to seek some souvenirs
but to walk alone under the arch,
where boots of masters and generals
of armies have also stood in solitude.
Who comes asking for bread at your door
but the Buddha wounded by his charge,
and though you soap his wounds he
dies quietly in your bath (last words
about children selling car-parts in Africa
and the seasonal rain on deserts I don’t
The shades cast on the verandah
and the vines on the fence beyond which
a gang of boys wreck with hammers the
face of an angel in the graveyard.
Succumbing up against the curb the photographer
with a silent suitcase open and explicit as a
forensic close-up of a gynaecological malfunction.
The halogen glow overhead glistens on his tongue.
Portraits of a crucifix leaning to the left resting up against an old rotten door spilling out onto the sidewalk. There are men in suits loitering under bridges, teenaged girls at the intersection, amputees on trams and laughing café partners in the alley ways. But none come to his aid. We drive on past abandoned picnic rest stops where ageing yellow umbrellas have blown off the tables, a decrepit fastfood restaurant whose giant gaudy hamburger has sprouted reeds, a thousand flattened bottlecaps flashing in the neon of the carpark.
The radio is broken. We muse that there would be news if we could hear it. We laugh, it’s a long cold winter.
What was forbidden is now permitted, describing your sympathies for those murdered during the drive, waving your arms both to emphasise and ash your cigarette, explaining as you inhaled that you wished we had a map to infiltrate the Ministry of Public Worship, to slap the King of priests and give grief to the legion of decency.
As we expected there is the head of a scapegoat on the gate.
Always prepared we have the apparatus lubricated for action.
You could see the Clowns penis as he approached.
He wasn’t one of those funny clowns either.
He was educational, with only the occasional
sleight of hand and fit of giggles with emphasis
on loaded words in scripted sentences designed
to entrain the childish mind. And he had us all
believing in elves and things, the infallibility
of the system, that the head man in the office
was put there by the people; we even agreed
to let him take our photograph, all laughed
and contorted in our poses. He was our torture
architect, a caring horticulturist tending to
our pain flowers. We loved him, beyond decay,
looked past his torments in the woods, danced
naked as he played with his fiddle by the fire.