May I speak to the manager
of this circus?
These elephants don’t leap high enough,
trapezists don’t fall far enough.
I’ve seen them fall
into nets,
now why not
into brambles?
Truly, what is this?
“Off with their heads,”
it’s all so played out.
If you’re going to give me
roses,
I want them painted
by the greats – I want Night Watch
in every petal,
Guernica in every flower.
If you’re going to give me
hearts,
I want them pulsing
and preserved,
with every vessel visible.
If you’re going to give me
heads,
I want them
still howling,
still cackling,
still jesting for us all.
What
am I even
paying you for?
Would you like me
to turn you
into a red rose, too?
No?
Then
chop chop.
Carpe Noctum 