Letter To A Clown

Dear Mister Duplicity,

Your smile is great, grating,
feigning sincerity, authentic
only in delusional conceit,
proud of your voracious
prowess. Your supreme
convictions appear electric,
vital. On the salty surface
you give the impression
that you salvage dilemmas,
with the stealth of a stallion,
but in reality, you abandon
desiccated river beds, and parched
spirits, depleting all of honorable
humanity. Your perverse perspective
presumes you are daringly adept
in offering contributions
to this dormant world,
even innovative, or inspirational
ones, implying that dowry
ought to be exhibited
at your precious altar,
debated by even remote
cynics. Even untainted shamans
shake their apprehensive
heads collectively.

Bless your brazen heart:
colorless, gratuitous, apathetic.
I record your lethal obsessions,
but there are too many traits
to consider. You are consumed
with your fanatical ego,
you narcissistic clown.
At a whim you arbitrarily
obliterate sacred trust,
devouring withering, weary
worlds in your path without struggle.
Instead you satiate your hedonistic
appetite, taking pleasure
in your repulsive reflection,
while I yearn for peaceful
valleys, cool, gentle nights
and bright, luminous days
where I can soothingly relax
my anxious brain.

So please, do not fret
over my pallid perspective.
I've got your precious number,
and I will keep in cheery contact
the moment Saturn kisses Venus,
or pinkish pigs fly golden kites.
Until that occasion surfaces,
let me just testify for record’s sake,
that my eyes will trickle
titillating tears of misery
in your infamous honor.
Now cry me a river.

With gratitude and a migraine,

The Sardonic Poet