Ape Clown: four snapshots

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Ape Clown mashes acrobats and slurps them up. The crowd applauds in horror. Bums on seats, my friend. Bums on seats.

—–

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The cage is empty. Ape Clown must be out on the tiles. In doorways: drowned women, dredged from neon dreams.

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Even Ape Clown has moments of nakedness. The mask comes off, then the greasepaint, then the skin. The hours wilt.

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Ape Clown dreams of immortality. But we barely remember what he looks like. A devil? A man? Not that it matters.

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