The Clown, by Edward J. Rathke

jimmy was a friend of mine

every night from the rodeo

wearing clown paint

a blue dress vest

pink oversized pants

jimmy watched with black sharkeyes

looked like a walking corpse

nothing but grey skin

yellow decaying teeth

and jagged bones

jimmy looked a childs nightmare

he sounded like he ate nails

a voice like sandpaper

like breathing smoke

like drinking glass

jimmy smelled like graveyards

never showered or changed

dried paint on his face

wrinkled filthy clothes

an imminent death echo

jimmy was a friend of mine

but never told his name

he sat smoking menthols

occasionally talking

drinking jim beam

jimmy loved to drink nights away

every night on the stool next to me

painted smile on his face

knives in his pockets

whiskey in his hand

jimmy stabbed a suited man

he spent months in jail

offered no reason

showed no remorse

just a painted smile

jimmy was a friend of mine

he felt like rotting clocks

despised the future

loathed the past

repulsed the present

jimmy lived in dadaistic nightmares

he complained walls screamed

was suspicious of shadows

saw ghosts everywhere

spoke to scarecrows

jimmy staggered into chaotic implosions

lived with a constant gun in his mouth

an unstable landmine

willing to kill any thing

a masqueraded guillotine

jimmy was a friend of mine

jimmy was a clown

jimmy was a demonic mystic

a hateful degenerate visionary

a nightmare revolutionary

jimmy was a friend of mine

but mostly

jimmy

scared the shit

out of me

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Edward J. Rathke is a wandering sort who spends his time making bad decisions and trying to not die. More of his words and life can be found at edwardjrathke.wordpress.com.