Fringe Theatre

Clowns, boiling over

Trailing banners and fliers and death

Clowns, comin’ atcha!

Smiling the moment you recoil from their breath

Recoiling the boy held the hand of the man who

Would later sell him the tickets

Comics, staring navelly

Stabbing the front row in the face with their spite

Comics, in the basement

Drinking their piss down away from the light

Away from the laughter the girl hides her pain

That the man on the stage is her intended

Actors, going nowhere

Fucking their friends so they feed on the fear

Actors, walking the plank

Honing their craft with an eye on their Lear

Eyeing the security guard, Ryan filches the vodka

His bench will be warm this Midsummer's Night