Burlesque

Clowns spitting rain
Wounds of the sword
Humid vengeance drain
Thus the word is slain.

And as it died in writhing pain
Form dragged along its rusted chain
At the end of which lay unfolded
The canvas of feelings often molded

Into chaos.

I hereby enter the world of plaster
And welcome the flat magic of the acrylic spell-caster.
I steal Rigoletto’s sounding hat
And I, too become flat.

Baroque flowers choke me
As I see the passing rainbow carriage
Of the curly marquis
Who is heading towards marriage

With a tree, you see.

The alabaster tree
Stands shorter than me
She winks her leaves, you see
And waves away the bowing of the bee.

Her vibrant still life
Cuts the canvas like a knife
Yet for all her boldness and my strife
I could not see her as his wife.

She wore a dress of pure sky
Wherein encrusted pieces of organs lie
And feathers of birds that cannot fly
And beads, and nectar, even rye.

The wedding party was a crowd
As numerous as they were loud
Silently they were stuck
From the willowy elephant to the blinking duck

To a painting.

And with lacquered shoes and booming trumpets
Each dreaming of the feast of crumpets
We cascaded down the boulevard
‘Twas a true event, recorded by a bard.

They have no churches there, you see
So ignorant are you, like me
They have the sand, the shore
And the dry, salty sea.

And our wedding party stopped still
As by a God or madman’s will
We waited for the lover pair
To jump off the cliff, into the air.

And as his curls flew into her leaves
I knew it was time to take my leave
So I sprinted down the dusty relief
And took flight upon a crazy belief

That I will survive.

Crashing down came I
Along with the dress, the beads and rye
And all the wedding party was to die
A burlesque, indecent death

That madness always keeps nigh.