and so, at last
the fool sat
strapped to a
folding chair
with a bouquet
of eager balloons
tied the back
astride his
wobbling star
speckled chariot
holding two
bright red flares
he wobbles
on the gently
blowing breeze
one last quixotic
attempt to mar
the ideal of
beauty with his
posioned pen of
vagrant dissent

each loud pop
a solemn descent
farther down
into an indecency
of distended neglect
a bedtime story
for nihilistic
who wear their
hearts stitched
bloody stains
quivering on
their sleeves

good night
i love you

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