The Civil Circus

My puppy.
There is sick butter
dripping down
these aisles.

Today I sat in my bell jar, and contemplated murders,
That cost the trespasser, his bi-polar
nerve.

My body negotiated the
most faithful
turns into absurd fires
while i lay in silence,
confused through mad nights
with clowns of all cities
and clowns of all clans
and clowns of all languages
and clowns from all lust-beds
wanting to rip my eyelashes 

I was a queen even then
A defeated one.
I was a courtesan of windows
I was the goddess of tongues
I am
I was

I am
Night

The thought shifts and declines
down
this very digestive tract

All my men
and clowns have receded
Only you remain puppy.
Only you will lick my wounds
when i will be slaughtered
And I will be minced
And I will be eaten
alive with the philosophy of
men and their
horrible beauty

You will wait to become
the soft angel
of my deathfulness again
You will be careful with my hair
and you will cover my nakedness
from gone head to gone toe
And you will sit with me
with your errant paws
whimpering with sadness

Oh puppy.
You are great.

Maybe
You will forget me
And that will do.