Clowns are shit

Asleep as you can be here, trouble the locks, it’s easy just jiggle them and see if any of them just fall apart. Do we even have hands? I’m not sure. There is sand underneath my feet but I know the sea troubles yours. Outside the Detectives play cards on small cardboard tables and chairs from beer crates. The Sun was low and setting but is now rising again. I suspect the grass has even turned over and is currently upside down in the rightside up. In the glow of the poor lamps I see your hand stretch out and grasp. I can’t really describe it. The blasted and sanded earth here. The scrub. In the sky the pantomimes are playing again and there we are in full suncolour and fresh as yesterday and the day before. Intense isn’t it?

The land just sinks lower and lower to the altar. I think the chasm or the abyss is about ten miles away judging by the way the land sinks towards it. It has no gravity of course just geometry. We know the maps can lie. We know the creased and stained parchments we hold do not offer us a way forward. We just tangle up the ways and the routes until we laugh and try to beat our heads against the rocks that pop up through the grass here and there. But it never hurts because Clowns love to laugh and they don’t want their little fantasies splayed out on the grass like dead toys or defunct cars that rust and rot. They want live shit. They want this Kulture buncle firmly in their own groove. Noses are red, violence is blue, I stamp on your head then put it back together with glue. Cavort in the rain. Dance in the dampness. Curl harsh words to the sky.

On the Dam wall he scrubs, suspended by ropes he wove out of the creepers and vines that tumbled down from the Angel light richness of the six peaks. The ropes of course cut into his hands but it is a light labour and now and again he would manoeuvre himself around so he could look at the valley far below and this too was good. Because when plants grow so healthy here it means the Angel light is good and precious and the Clown mess is gone from here. THERE. They don’t even know what a Clown is because a Bee buzzing is funny, or a leaf gently turning suspended on a strand of Spider web. Clowns are shit compared to twinkling sunlight.

“It’s a diary of sorts where he just put in random thoughts from his oxygen starved mind” she said. But none of us really breathe here. We just pretend to.

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