The clowns

  
While you sleep, the clowns walk the tightrope of your life story. The faintest gust of wind topples them. They drift down like leaves.

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The clowns daub themselves with war paint and don dark suits with silver cuff links and tumble into the sulphurous day.

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The clowns juggle appointments, ointments, disappointments. They grin when we insert coins in their wide dead mouths.

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Catching a clown is easy. Wait until he’s on his second bottle and then set your crows on him. When you’ve got him, don’t listen to his pleading.

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If allowed near a churchyard, the clowns will dig up the dead. They can’t help it! They may bring you a leg, a head, hoping for your approval.

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Water burns the clowns. Consequently, they bathe in vodka and drink mercury.

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The clowns enjoy a special diet of strawberries, lamb, azaleas and fear. They can’t abide anything pink. Mirrors and loudspeakers confuse them.

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Tell me about yourselves, she says to the clowns. But they have nothing to say. The silence stretches and yawns. She sneezes and apologises.

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The clowns ride unicycles around the rings of Saturn. Astronomers sulk in their beds. A pie in the face, a supernova. Whatever.

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Time stutters, the lights blink. The clowns wear our faces, but we don’t wear theirs. We wear nothing. We’re naked, soft, almost zero.

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The clowns visit a bombed-out hotel. The air tastes of ash. They insist on a room with no view. The pulverised concierge wears a stiff smirk.

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It is evening. The clowns are ensconced in your cerebellum. The feasting begins soon. The wet grey tables are laden with larval images.

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Sometimes, the clowns slip out of synch with the ticking world. Slapstick tricks crack their backs. Mums and dads are sent out of the room.

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The show is over. The clowns sit in rows, dabbing at their grease painted faces. The masks dissolve and their skulls show through.

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The clowns try crawling down the wall. They want to be Dracula. But they fail. Hours later, rats have conquered the mountain of corpses.

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For the clowns, sleep is a rehearsal for death. They keep their eyes open and dream of nothing.

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Originally published as a series of tweets.

Donald Trump on immigration

  
Now, we have to build a fence. And it’s got to be a beauty. Who can build better than Trump? I build; it’s what I do. I build; I build nice fences, but I build great buildings. Fences are easy, believe me. I saw the other day on television people just walking across the border. They’re walking. The military is standing there holding guns and people are just walking right in front, coming into our country. It is so terrible. It is so unfair. It is so incompetent. It is so impotent. And we don’t have the best coming in. We have people that are criminals, we have people that are crooks. You can certainly have terrorists. You can certainly have Islamic terrorists. You can have anything coming across the border. We don’t do anything about it. 

  
So I would say that if I win, I would certainly start by building a very, very powerful border. I am not impotent. Who can build a better border than Trump? I can build fences to the sky. I can build electric fences to the sky. I can build electric fences to the sky that fire nukes when criminal Islamic Mexican terrorist rapist immigrants try to go near them or look at them or talk about them or imagine them. 

  
My fence will be a beauty. I get hard just thinking about all those nukes. And who’s paying for those nukes? They are! The criminal Islamic Mexican terrorist rapist immigrants. Because we need a very powerful, very beautiful border, with gun towers and men in masks and nukes all lined up and water cannon at the ready and insect repellant and weed killer and rat poison and chemical weapons. That will stop those people coming into our country.

  

The mannequins are more real than you

  
The mannequins favour zero gravity, breathlessness, the labyrinth of stars. 

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The mannequins inhabit a forgotten planet, orbiting your daydreams. 

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The mannequins will accuse you of anything. Their courtroom is lodged behind your eyes. 

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Time is kept on a leash. When the mannequins laugh, it digs up your bones. 

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Look in the mirror. While you slept, the mannequins left scarlet lipstick stains on your throat. 

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Originally published as a series of tweets.