Elastic Braces Go Twang

This clown type sez: Merry Criz. He sez: Keep yr hand in. He sez: Over and over, yer gotta pull over. The clown is anti-me.

His long shoes hung up. Back of the wardrobe, still warm, twitching off the peg. He lies down, hands behind his neck, fag in mouth. There is a bare, swinging lightbulb, caramelised at the bottom, dead flies stuck to it. What looks like piss drops hanging from the ceiling. The yellow ceiling. Traces of make-up on his face, including: eye shadow, red lipstick, white pancake, reddish nose, strands of ginger plastered to his sweaty forehead. He has ruffles rising up around his neck. Big puffy sleeves. Tied trousers, striped with endless pockets. White socks, holes and confetti. Fag in mouth.

What clowns dream of when they sleep is holes burning deep into their faces. They dream of flames licking around their heads, the make-up chemicals keeping them, the flames, alive. When they wake, the clowns, they are distressed to see charred, smoking skulls in the mirror. Charred, smoking skulls aren’t funny. Children don’t like them.

There was this clown with Tourette’s whose speciality, of course, was children’s parties.