Hunt Down The Clowns

Part I: Coercio

Don’t remember– Inviting you here, Swine, but here–
You are– Lusting over– Apples– But I am not Adam–
Notice my Lot– Distanced– From the Fourteenth
Trigger, the– Absent letter, the– End of my–
Shaming– Signed without– The irrelevant virtuosos–
Our ghastly immobilized adventurers!

Oo’, how costly are we? Oo’, how long ‘til we fall?

Part II: The Murder of Crows

heed not those who only have their body to offer the world
for all gets wizened, and beauty falls out by calamity of age

heed not those who pour by lure of the unmoored hands and never ask for your name, for what you study, what you watch, what
tickles your leveraged mind
they are timid looking for timely and timid only
and you can time them, bind them if you want

everybody disappoints me, much as I am
the greatest disappointment of the world, and with the red raincoat, I checked in your hotel here
bearing no gifts but scars and plastic pianoforte melts,
The Uglied Martian Adonis of Samothrace
standing, standing
and vilified ‘yond recognition
in this cartoon lobby
of carton glamor
But can you see– I am the penumbra,
the constellation, the tidal wave, the buttress of summation,
I am the Alazon interblent, the dastardly plat du jour bovine acrostic

And I crave for nothing but decent imperfection and reblochon sitting in the wind, so pass me it,
esprit de corps and dissidence and parsley rails like epaulet and earwig,
Christen me with a twig and a twink and we’re good to go!
Good to bang!

poetry as a wall,
poetry as a defense mechanism,
poetry as a clapback,
poetry as prestige rambling, so we ramble on,
we grovel,
we disdain,
we detain,
we share the riches of No Hoe’s Land,
we crawl through vents and vast deserts and even thinner stretches of plans in planes,
we burn into gazebos,
we dilate, we breach the breech,
become truants that overanalyze,
and over-socialize,
‘til we are over being over of the oversized,
we cage into our epistolaries,
we marvel and dizzy for discretion, and scut be the trifold of semesters of the Alazon haught,
we are so screwed by our hallucinogems of choice, our rocks
gagging by and gurgling by, so I’m ghosting to get some more like you, more like the dilapidated bard…

Part III: Pachycephalosaurus

Sydney, I know you don’t remember the crib that held you as you grew well,
And how you kissed the mirror for practice, longing, O’, so longing to be held,
And how the hard hats burned through the soft cores of your slammed heart,
And how you played dress-ups when your contemporaries are reading asleep.

Sydney, what would you give and give up to be loved like you have by the fawn?
Would you forsake the rest of the day or would you quietly calm to move on?
Would your crass move more barricades and gray the hungry wolves by the wall?
They will be waiting for you for you are a meat to the eyes that shifts not all.

Is the nightmare over?

Long have I contemplated the attractive curves of the blade,
Long have I considered it, pulling towards it like a pronged path,
Bath made of santissimo and kerneled by the portentous,
All our swear words and curses from the witch, all our admonishments,
They are bizarre– too bizarre for men.

How often do you wake up at peace?
Are you suspended by the tranquilizing power of the prose-positioned rosary?
Are you unwell with the Umwelt? Are you cautious? Calloused?
Or are you brokered by it?
Survival is the burden we have to endure.
Surviving in bars, in sneaker shops, sweat shops, sweating in call centers, office buildings, semi-chaotic homes, and ever-punishing scrolls,
Surviving in Catholic churches and Cadillacs, in lecture halls and diner dinner tables,
Surviving from dates with predators and hackers and their acolytes and from the dimmest of the ‘verse’s jerks.

Is the nightmare over yet?

What comes after it? Is it more suffering, more surviving, more twisted roads, more landmarks for the damned?
Or is it a simple queen-sized bed where you can finally crawl down to finish kissing your journals?
I do hope one day they all get tired of my voice, and they let me retire from this bitter work, send me off with my money, my thoughts, and my sins to hone,
And my prayers and my trims, send me bursting back alone.

I am not getting the hang of this new city.
I open my cat mouth and it’s a Monet.
I become part of the waterworks. I am now a waterfall.

I want my ex-lover back.
I just want him.
I just want him is all.

Can I offer him something?
Will this wicked body do?
I can entertain him with something,
But I need assurance he won’t stall.

Part IV: The Lion’s Share

You feel too much– You feel too little–
There’s nothing wrong with you–

You’re way too fast– You can’t decide
There’s nothing wrong with you–

You’re way too soft– Way too distant, too stoic,
Still, there’s nothing wrong with you

There’s just you and the world–
You– and the world would love to bring down and down with it–

We call it ‘crab mentality’ in our country–
Because we name what we can’t kill–
And we label who we are

We identify, and we mock, and we belittle what we become
We gossip, and we sermon, and we drink ‘til everyone’s left the bar
We own salons and juice box stands, we then and then become
cell towers of seeming people, a sea in single-minded rectangle blocks of buttocks
and coffee breaks, cigarettes time outs,
for a breezy five minutes
where we can squeeze in breaking the young ones
for being so free– they must then be brokered–
so we can steal some of our
years back from them

The men sitting behind expensive oaken tables tax
your worth, and your lipstick, and your shirt, and your soil, soul
so you they can benefit more from low esteem of those around them, your team, you see,
Gas prices, speed throttling, violence in video games, ecstasy and EDM
We spend endless weekends
in dark clubs groping strangers who want to be felt
and allow ourselves to be
taken, booed and boned, and plowed in beds
We are on a cycle, on a diet,
of aliens entering our dead rooms and eating our dead flesh
then smile at our dearests as if
we have not just been broken by debt in the first place

A soul crushed now is a soul crushed forever
They have the lion’s share, and that comes with stolen Esteem, the parent

Part V: Indulge

Some’ once told me off that no soul
Would ‘member me as they do my heroes
That may be, then, still that don’t sit right
Makes me welp in such fraught

Fraught at the moonlight
I just hope the electric city to post
Electric pink posters of me, five and fire and ten,
Years after the door, ‘longside Sharknado

…I want to haunt them so bad, so
Bring me back, you not-alive-yets
Pirate me like your music– an auteur undead
No peace without pieces for the fam unprepared, for the fam well-read


OTHER POEMS BY ETHAN LESLEY CC | CLICK HERE TO VIEW ALL || Burgundahlia, poetry
 
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