deepundergroundpoetry.com

Just Business

The tightrope walker, fucked on ketamine,
wobbles on lifeless legs.
Smile dazed and unhinged, the
tutting is drowning him but he is unaware,
this patronisation is anaesthetic. Eyes
light up as he threatens to slip,
hindsight forms in the mouths of the crowd
waiting for proof off their savage wisdom.
The circus manager,
in a full Tommy Tracksuit,
strokes his wedge of twenties.
Another cat that's licked up his milk,
soon ready to be fed again. Happy
to let the walker take the spotlight he waits in the shadows,
trap-phone in one hand, puppet in the other,
a model professional.

The tightrope walker scans the world for sympathy,
he sees deserts and wets his crusty lips,
a mirage appears but a deeper look shows jack shit, just
a council estate of inspiration stretching
greyer by the block, akin to the days
 he'd meet Cerberus in Gucci and was astounded by his coarseness,
he sits drooling at an easel sketching his life, crayon
childish and bright, wondering why his squiggled line
can't still make a pretty picture, who says says he?
'Squares? Those raped of romance?
'The legion of arses slapped by ergonomic keyboards?'
'I'm alright, ta. Run me a bath and fill the plughole with Valium'
'Watch me drown in that slurred voice you laugh at'.
Written by heresjohnny97 (Jaw Knee)
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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