Pound for pound, the tears of a clown
Fool performs when nobody’s around
No sound except the silence
The threat of violence
Blind from the poison so he borrows my lens
Pretense of excellence
Poised sequence of chex mixed mental fits
Decked in his battle-gear
Can’t scare adults, so he strikes fear
In the hearts of children, midland
Little tykes in toy-land
Hasn’t felt a female touch since ninety-three
Hasn’t shaved since the war, hasn’t bathed in
I can’t remember, was it mid-september?
Some time that he melted in an ether blender
It’s rendered, mentally unstable, flip the table of
Able doctrines, mistfits to my fix, all quiet on
The frontal lobe, burned out and it’s all gone
Insect chitters in the skull, mentally null, abstractly
Dead in a cask of fear and humility, if only the audience
Could really see, beyond the make-up of the clown
A tortured me
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