Sex and Murder Magazine

By Joseph M. Gant; Poet in Residence

the clowns had opened up their veins
balloons fell limp from heaven.
there was fire juggled, fumbled, burning,
laughing on the stage.

and so the ring, the masquerade, and pantomimes profane—
dust beneath a canvas sky;
epileptic trapeze-foil, raining on the floor and there

is nothing but to say it was
and mark the witness, filthy stubs of memory,
trails of grime that pave the showing
hailing to the passersby.