The Clown Makes A Confession

I do things for the joke,
For the way your eyes glaze over at my boring stories
I know humanity,
Like my handspan, like my tarot cards,
Like my deep breaths I heave and pull in at night as I sleep.

My father takes his old gun and tells me stories
And my eyes do not glaze over.
Tell me Father, did it hurt being too proud of your country?
Was mother really your first?
Do you love Britain like your twin?
Don’t shoot me Daddy.

I sit raised, head high, as if I had a star glowing over my head,
I tell people that I’m funny, I’m a delight,
I prefer too much lemonade in my sangria,
I prefer women to shut up about feminism and start living,
I don’t know, I guess I can’t handle men who cry?

I have the Canterbury Tales in front of me and I don’t care,
I like my academia like I like my peanut butter, smooth, no bumps,
Rich, and too much of it is bad for you
A self-evaluation is what you’re reading here, it is like a CV
But more random,

Collect my achievements like a basket of apples from your Grandfather’s tree,
And pick each one and look at its shine,
I’ve out-accomplished every cocaine snorter or geek in my year,
But tsk tsk, I don’t tell people that.
(I just did).
I brush my hair and I’m shedding lily petals,

They drop to the carpet like fairy dust
And I wonder how many times you could replicate my face with those strands,
Those buds, those real washing lines,
You pin up clothes like trophies,
Style them till they’re exhausted and crumpled like my dry-bone heart.

I was only telling Sarah the other day I’m maturer these days.
Too bad Freshers is coming,
I have to communicate via beer bottles and mojitos.
Like a child with melted chocolate all over its face, saying they didn’t eat
All the Easter eggs.

Yeah I’m talking to you, I’m talking to you through the veins of cats and dogs,
Through the whiff of petrol stations and KFC,
Through the taste of Mother’s snores and Father’s yells,
I’m telling you things I don’t fully understand, like quantum mechanics
Or War & Peace, or Carol Ann Duffy’s latest collection.

I do things for the joke,
For your laughter, I want the tingling on repeat for my vinyl player,
Just so my heavy body can feel good about itself,
I do things for the joke,
Dry these tears of the clown, please.

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