corporate clowns

arrived like second class post, slowly it arrived amongst a time of low expectations

everyone had thought it was gone for good, it’s appearance delayed outside windows, inclement

and I didn’t hear it right, did she say.”dead sale”, “dead seal”, “dead cells”, a royal seal?


they want us to keep so many balls in the air, they think we’re clowns, red noses and pie in faces , the laughter of the crowd,
but not under a big top standing under a rusted corporate sign.



  1. multiplemichael

    but not under a big top
    standing under a rusted Christian
    the unwanted baby awake with the laughter
    this world just a prelude
    growth glue and broken bones
    time is moving an answer from the eye
    I wrote your name on a DUST-JACKET BLURB
    you were the parents
    thinned with fear
    they lied about renewal
    they lied about regeneration
    the unwanted baby floats in the lake of spirit bound flames


  2. multiplemichael

    how many times are you going to ask how meaningful are coincidences
    simultaneous occurrences
    unrelated events
    psychic razor blades
    pant phenomena
    concrete abstractions
    yes, after thousands of times…dust
    being the poster-boy of abstinence
    withdrawing from your shaky hand
    what you were going to use to reproduce
    has dried up
    pearly foam no more
    mournful torment
    stick honesty


    • eatmorewords

      You can’t count the times
      snake oil salesmen
      tailored stitched
      role into town
      a thousand pins randomly stuck into a map, viewing reveals

      patterns emerge
      razor sharp
      dots joins dots tied to a ball of wool
      that unravels with the gradient
      unravelling centrifugally spinning
      past ghosts


  3. multiplemichael

    five years of art school and you produced one pattern of a thousand or twenty thousand pins
    you said that you stuck them in maps but no one could see the maps
    five years of art school and you produced one pattern using 700 or 2000 pins
    you said you purchased the pins but you five-fingered them
    who was that girl that woman with the methylone
    everyone loved her and her royal pink salt
    she had sticky hands she had sweat rings
    royal pink salt and a stinky behind
    you remember the methylone
    it was your buddy
    it laughed when the pattern said, “ouch”
    it misplaced the maps


    • eatmorewords

      The pins were purchased on line – a batch of 5,000 assorted pins – they came with a history – some had held Manhattan project blueprints – others had held schematic drawings of nightmares – others stuck Rorschach patterns to boards in brown bricked buildings – DNA compressed clung to the pins sharp points – at night he would select a pin – by colour, shape, age, sharpness – press into himself to see if he was there – brilliant light eroded the memory of the methylone girl – positioned on the map where crease and folds hide places and secret bunkers where he kept his collection


    • eatmorewords

      at scouts they never taught you to read maps, they gave you a knife and uniform – smoking behind the tents, fingers deep inside
      wetness, hair sticks, she, her
      under nails, bitten through nerves, they never taught you the key to the maps, the way to read the signs,
      agreed upon icons
      hills and mountains, differentiated by lines, contours closer together denotes height, her contours
      pink under man made fibres, her map, a heart,
      a place to bury your treasure


  4. multiplemichael

    sharp divergence between pins
    contradictory DNA makes little difference
    you kept saying that others couldn’t see the maps because they were American maps
    obscure twilight zones
    no proof often comes before real existence
    you mention nightmare drawings but where are the footnotes ?
    the smell of European folds are not to be found in American creases
    that poor girl pushed in all the pins
    you were an OBSERVER
    methylone is so slippery
    acolytes beware
    you told that young lady that by pushing in the pins, she would experience your POWER
    the neighbors complained about the noise
    their infant was damaged by the foul leaking methylone
    their unborn unwanted baby was blessed with horns
    her lower parts never recovered from the fatigue
    you looked down there
    why you were there at the appointed time is a mystery
    someone had shaved her bush
    fortnight hairs
    brown pins with no heads
    one of your famous poems: FORTNIGHT HAIRS WITH NO HEADS
    ambiguous words difficult to pin down
    sharp dichotomy between real and unreal maps
    pubic hair must fulfill certain functions
    tough-minded headless pins
    infantile horns and the neighbors cannot sleep
    industrialized America with its old-fashioned maps
    often not recognized as maps
    the footnotes say that hair-cutting is symbolic castration
    art school often cut pubic hair to control primary aggressive impulses
    five years at art school via bald genitalia


    • eatmorewords

      your famous poem taught the juveniles a new syntax, a new way to see, a new way to use what they already had and at that reading, when one exposed the map – on skin, pin pricked Indian ink –
      a map of your journey here, old as time and thumbed in text books amongst the stifled laughter, the part teachers wouldn’t let you discuss – they all felt lost in this new word of words, struggling to get footholds in the dialect, new and unyielding, new and bald
      that’s how it starts


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