And mind-numbingly circuitous;

This trip-wire, trap-doored, prat-fall

Journey from the flea-pit deeps,

Where the cold dry winds blow.

Every delaying hold up is

Another new, last-legs rotunda circus,

Tattered-flag finery and faded big-top

Under which failing, falling, flailing clowns

Try vainly to disguise the unholy, unnatural stink

Of humiliated animals, onlookers and voyagers.

Beasts all; we queue, hoping for so much

On days like these, fearful of

Missing, of falling faster behind,

Missing that one important sign

That will send us to glory.

To Dance With Clowns

“Strange,” he thinks, quietly to himself,

Climbing the suddenly-too-steep staircase,

“Strange how the world turns

Around a moment in a relationship” :

For earlier, he watched love shade

Change to pity then full-blast ranting hatred.

“Strange, ” he cannot stop thinking now

That he’s started …

“The world is turning around this latest demand”.

He means the single white pill, so tinily perfect –

Balanced like an equation-to-be

In the bowl of a silver spoon.

Reflections come, twist, haunt  and pass on.

Quiet desert fire isolation,

Wild, decibel-loaded parties,

Southern belt skies, dreams of

Oaks and queens and

Better-when bad princesses,

White bannisters, warm apples,

Good company on journeys-far-from home.

Reaching the familiar-for-once carpeted landing

He pauses to rescue a breath, reminds himself:

“Those who choose to dance with clowns

Would do well to remember how quickly,

How well, how completely they recover from falls.”