the Surreal Circus (part one)

somewhere beyond Capuchin,

a menagerie makes camp:

its Wagon of Technicians

has a swiftly lowered ramp

for their latest steal (from catacombs)--

she's sleeping now, and peaceful--

so released from rank display,

she is havened. -by a lamp,

Silver Girl jots hasty tidbits

in a tight and flowing hand...

beside her, with a hodge-podge

of fungi reaped from the land,

her comrade Arleen pops a bulb,

fingers gritty with sand.

"Another for the annals,"

she observes. "Pics on demand..."

Silver Girl gives her a glance

before returning to her journal.

a blonde bookworm pauses to scan

the wagon's new sojourner

before embarking--down the ramp--

to read The Color Purple...

under this dusk, a jungle tusk

is patted by a man;

his brown eyes dart in not-quite-dark,

ingesting all they can.

"Poddar," he murmurs to himself,

"where has your river ran?"

he leads the elephant along,

starting to whistle as the throng

of busy comrades heed the bong

which summons all to dinner.

and they enter, Lloyd leading the fray--

he pins the tent flap back, away,

and up; cups his mouth to bray,

"Let's get this party started!"

this imparted, he begins to walk

an aisle the cooks have cordoned off,

talking with Austin, John, and Tom

the Hunter...-in their hunger,

each neglected to give paint a wash--

their faces are yet covered...

-Collett hovers, muttering a snatch

of something from his latest catch.

(he fishes in the Loch Ness, whether

he and Scotland are together

or apart...-distance never

keeps these beings from their pleasure...)

Carol fingers jewelry

while waiting for that crew to leave,

that she might leap into the breach--

she made the necklace on a beach

that afternoon, with two or three

others to sell. (her booth is sweet,

from case to earring tree...)

Chana, Gwen and Warren

politick up near the neck,

where a road yields on the field

which the Circus will bedeck

on the morrow. "...I was peeled,"

Chana laughs around her cheese.

"Is there any more merlot, dear Gwen?"

-Gwen gives said (with a grin:

she's slipped LSD within...).

where the field becomes a fen,

there's a Gathering of circusfolk:

their watch, each guardian.

Adrian the Reaver--

that's the name she wears tonight--

stands beside the Image Reader,

who is scrying by the sky;

Robert rides by on occasion.

and he always tips his hat.

and they always tip their helmets--

all the circusfolk do that--

and they don't ask where he's going,

for he fails not to come back.

(he has two things in his holsters

that can fend any attack...)

and their vigilance is constant--

each to take the other's slack...

(the moon is low and pregnant; oh,

its velvet bed is black.

"How gorgeous," Vivian asserts...

pauses the hourglass--

she's a Time Lord, it's her wont to do

what she will with Its ass.

that's exactly why her wagon

has a clock upon its door;

she has fucked the face of Evening,

and made of It her whore.)

in the moor:

sitting in a tree,

Jimmy whittles handles

for the knives Corrina this night forged.

the pair has mounted candles

where the limbs divorce...

in the gorge:

Duffy sifts the scree,

seeking stones to charge

(for use as charms;

to coax the Duine Sidhe...)

Rose, Richard, and Ricky Lam

bear lamps to help him see.

Ricky's mask is gold, and trimmed with white;

Livesay's philosophies

are nearly as bright

as that effect.

a rose is just...a rose.

Dano forages for coffee beans upon a ridge's nose

over their heads, heeding each in speech

as concepts juxtapose...

                 (to be continued)