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THE FATAL HOUR
by Graham Swanson
I found you in the rivers at the bottom of your heart
A screw driver in your windpipe
I'll grab you by the roots of your hair and make you eat garbage
I walk in the daylight. Where else could you see me?
I walk in the middle of the day. Where else could you find me?
I know where you pray
I'll let the air out of your tires and hit you with a bike lock
I know where you sleep
I'll let everyman out of prison
I know what you love
I'll open every grave and swallow your children
I can see from here that you're all haunted
Some good. Some bad.
When I sleep I see dead bodies
They are my dearest friends
I AM THE CRIMSON DRAGON THAT PULLS THE PALE MOON'S SILVER WAGON
Crossed by double silver handled twin daggers
Alone on my pedestal
at the center of the world!
Drink the blood from my golden chalice
All your wishes will come true.
THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN CLOWNS AND JESTERS
by Graham Swanson
A Clown performs in the street
in the dirt
That's why he is dressed the way he is
To distract from the fact that he lives in the filth of Parisian streets.
A Jester, to the contrary,
performs in the King's Court.
He is respected, noble. He knows the room
better than anyone. He knows
the secrets. He holds political power.
He whispers into the King's ear, and makes him laugh. No one
fucks with a jester. Because he will
Unviel them in front of the entire court.
In song.
A Jester can SEND MEN to the dungeon.
A Clown watches the mirth of a castle from the cold alley ways.
When YOU are alone in a dungeon-
when you're awoken by a rat gnawing
on your ankle bone
And all you had to eat is moldy bread,
it'll be the face-the mask- of a Jester smiling back at you.
The Clown, sad and lonely, plays sticks in the alley. He spins bottles, honks a horn.
The Jester sharpens a knife on his tie-
Shatters windshields with the sharp end of his cane.
A Clown stumbles into the frozen mud to chase a lost balloon
A Jester will laugh in your face because you will never know who he is.
A Clown slips and falls in horse shit.
A Jester will always be in the dungeon. Watching and laughing, making googly eyes, and inventing new ways to torment his prisoners.
A Clown sleeps in the cold, takes his wig off, his gloves off, and make up off.
I CAN'T FIND HAPPINESS
by Graham Swanson
It's okay to have feelings that *you* don't like
When I see a smile its a mask- I feel your sneer
those trees are prison bars
the sun shines with hate
and burns the supple flesh
Under that mask I see the scorchmarks of the sun
I see freckles, rashes, and cancer.
From wild Green hills to my hometown- it's a bus
ride full of desperate fugitives escaping the ever
widening void
Ever hungrier- moving at the speed of
Light
They smile at me but think I am strange, crazy,
a serial killer- why- just ask them why? They shudder.
I walk the streets alone in search of those neon
monsters of mirth and I drink believing merrymakers
find happiness in the gas
Only to discover adulterers, men who punch glass, and drug dealers.
I search the mist and alleyways for love. All I
find are games of Russian Roullette
Meth addicted, beautiful women- kiss me, then I drop them off at dark apartments or RVs
once the sun goes down
They are the Valentine's Day Muggers- we share
one similarity, that we'd rather find elusive death
yet something drags us forward into the dark-
with no hearts, we share a strange hour
Neither one is alone- yet crushed by the
Moon, and joined by the chants of
10,000 screaming banshees
A heart beating in a drawer
Lungs wheezing in a glass
Smoke burning at midnight
swollen knuckles, fist warmed inside
pockets.
I am the man alone walking from alley to alley.
I cannot find happiness in this
world.
To me, its only a moment on TV
when they're trying to sell you shit
you don't need.
Or a moment when you get too drunk to remember
that you have work in the morning.
I walk between monsters and rows of dead stalks
I sleep in abandoned houses,
and burn books to stay warm.
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