You could see the Clowns penis as he approached.
He wasn’t one of those funny clowns either.
He was educational, with only the occassional
sleight of hand and fit of giggles with emphasis
on loaded words in scripted sentences designed
to entrain the childish mind. And he had us all
believing in elves and things, the infallibility
of the system, that the head man in the office
was put there by the people; we even agreed
to let him take our photograph, all laughed
and contorted in our poses. He was our torture
architect, a caring horticulturist tending to
our pain flowers. We loved him, beyond decay,
looked past his torments in the woods, danced
naked as he played with his fiddle by the fire.
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