Big Top

Big Top. pic

 

other people’s encampments, their pleasure zones, for once,

are not off-limits or out of bounds

Their gaudy fare and pick-pockets mix with those types who

sport tattoos, chew gum and wear flamboyant  facial hair

The otherness of it all, the pornography of colour and sound

and everything somehow beyond confession as if it was

all dressed up in the dark so pleasure and sin can be

made thrilling in the anonymity of shared experience

 

Those minstrels come to town in wagons and caravans

that seem to be beyond normal law

Charlatans with soft toys and goldfish they would sell as gifts

All gaudy hostages in transit, into whose misfortune we become

complicit

The ground itself a crime scene. Innocent lush grass crushed

not just once but an entire Village Green, a sacred space, sacrificed

to organs and screams. And then it’s gone

The Circus woven and spun into and out of itself

The Big Top, fascinatingly,  moving on and leaving me with

distorted visions in vanishing hub caps

my soiled prurience intact,  until they roll into town again

Easter Sunday. Warsaw. 2018

Easter Sunday. Poem. Picture

 

they could be a line of Pilgrims

stretched on the flat horizon below

an amorphous sky clinging damply to heaven

back-packs and offerings in step

eager with votive desire to blend into

the city landscape where

everything is closed

except the churches

open minds

and hands

craving chocolate

Later, as night claims the shadows

the municipal facade of a building

is washed in reverent light;

a better man would know the Pope,

so travellers are never left in doubt

the insistent summons

carrying on into the night