I wrote this awhile back and Jess & Tim came up with the animation, and the animation is GREAT! But I'm not all that impressed with my vocals. Never did get a chance to rework it before Jess had finished the animation... I guess it came out okay. The poem has been rewritten some since Jess' contributions. Original draft of this poem was written in 2008. I always come back to it and make a change here and there. I think it's one of my favorites. So, thanks to Jess and Tim for their work on this project.
Welcome To…
the Freak Show
Hi-de-hey, hi-de-ho!
Welcome, friends...
to the freak show.
Shuffling
footsteps
down the hall
come one,
come all
the end is
near
where
breathing labors
like a vacuum
cleaner
running out
of suction!
All those horrible
years
spent a munchin'
kitty fur,
globs of
wadded dental floss.
All those
tears lost,
spent weeping
withered leaves
to grieve for
bleak December.
All those
fears
piling up:
mourning
cobwebs
and cigarette
butts
fornicating
on the rug.
"Heya,
Heya!" cries the barker
from the
sideshow tent,
"See the
amazing frog boy
pickled in a
jar!"
And here he
is… pissed yellow
for all
eternity to schijt upon.
How our
blue-stain collared
fingers mock
him,
skeptic
sneers, cruel jeers
torment his
lifeless body,
petrified for
resurrection
in the soiled
pocket flap
of heaven's
evening coat.
So, better kiss
me quickly, deary,
while my
tarnished lips
remember how
your
warm, wet
tongue
once brought
to life
my decaying
smile...
But she'll
have none of that.
For she’s too
busy now
her hands a burying
the dead,
her tapered
fingers
screaming
lily white, red
fire tears
carving
crimson
rivers 'cross
her swollen
angel face.
Our graveyard
spirit spits
too much
these days,
drinks too
much
these moments
in,
stands far too
close
to grief
soaked sparrows
who’s only
sin was searching
for a simple
truth or two,
a simple
though that might
comfort all
of us who lie,
who die naked
in the winter snow.
We shall
sleep, no more.
No more may
we sing
for better or
for butter or
for weather
kinder
than the
mother who
delivered us
on the nunnery steps
with the curdled
cream
the milkman
left last night.
But the
willow may weep,
may bow it's
green-weary head,
sniffling improper
oaths
as the horsemen
trample past
the wailing ghosts;
they won’t
leave but bitter curses
on the few of
us still lasting.
Too demanding
we have been,
circumcised
from sweet nature's treat
at such an
early age... no longer
do we
recognize the bourbon scented breath
of poor old father
as he staggers to the
smoky-mirrored
barroom in the sky.
Then shall we
surely meet our makers,
slovenly,
brutal gods who ram themselves
deep down
within our youthful throats
then lick
their sores like wounded dogs
and disappear
into the fog.
They never
loved us, not at all.
rrw 2008
(rewrites o6-27-12)
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