Two-Way Funhouse Mirror

'For whom is the fun house fun?'
John Barthe, Lost In The Funhouse

The waddling crowd,
silver glossed uneasy smiles.
Flashes of beauty wished,
glimpse of deformity cursed.

Behind the smoke mirrored,
The beautiful and the grotesque,
disgusted and vengeful, removed by
thin silver optics fractured and twisted
by the hot sea of blank eyes.

The crowds unease builds to resentment,
In the dark, unseen disgust builds to cruelty.

Cracks spider web and universal panic spreads.

The self-proclaimed heirs to
the pre-dawn builders of mirrors,
the ambitious repairmen of all sides,
go about their quiet work unnoticed.

Raccoons in his Eyes

Raccoons in his eyes
Squirrels in his heart and
Bees in his blood
And folds of skin
like warm wax

He opens his mouth to laugh
The squirrels pierce the ears.

Another drink, and another.

“How long have you been…”
Raccoons dance
and dart,
rolling folds find their proper pose

Another joke, more squirrels, another drink

And the bees begin to infect my blood
And the skin on my face disconnects from my soul

I need to get out of here.