The Circus of Death

The circus is a big sky with a circle beneath,
Custard Pi(e) shoved in the face of humility.
In ancient days, they drowned clumsy jugglers.

Maybe it was the track-suited clown
Dishing out hard-luck stories to the
Drunks in The Greedy Pig fun bar.
Scuffed lipstick caught his whiskey breath.

Maybe it was the Neanderthal thug
Ablaze in Adidas and knuckle-duster
Who dropped the clown to the floor.
“Chuckle now, you sad cunt.”

Maybe it was the smell of her skin
As we watched the circus leave town,
Collecting car number plates as teenage detectives.
Land Rover named Discovery posed
As post-modern irony in adolescent library.

Winter pushing; could tell from the
Way she artfully flicked cigarette ash
We wouldn’t be here next summer.

The priapism viaduct unfolded Motorway vulva,
We imagined the lives of the circus caravan:
Acrobat pierced by Master of the Ring,
Snow White’s unholy army selling drugs
On snow drenched Chapel steps,
Kitchen-sink bachelor tightropes between
Cobwebs and semen-stained magazine walls,
Stilt walkers afraid of walking under ladders,
Fire-eater gulping gasoline Hors D’oeuvres.

Maybe it was just the rain
Which flattened my quiff,
Or the Once Upon a Time crimes
Which some call entertainment.