Here comes the breeze
Jingly.
Jangly.
Fun, happy times.
The paid fool will dance about at his hourly rate. Keeps the nippers entertained while the dads discuss golf and the mums get acceptably drunk. The kids are laughing at him. They pull on his clothes and his hair and his nose and his skin and they rip and they punch and they kick and he screams. And they stop.
He screams, they stop, they're all watching him. Watching him stand there, motionless. They watch him as he falls to the ground, falls to his knees, back onto his heals, out comes his legs and he's sat there against the wall. Eyes still. Arms by his sides. Sitting there, muscles dead. His white makeup runs down his left cheek as one tear falls from one eye, into his lap and out into the world.
He only took on this job because he did drama at school once. And that was just to get out of geography. His wife needs medical care and he needs the money. Her income is gone, he's got little kids at home, she needs all these drugs and operations and he needs to pay. His dad got rushed to hospital this morning. He had a stroke. He's got to feed the kids. He's got to pay for the dog's vet bill. He's got to pick up his wife from the ward. Cancer is a horrible disease. He keeps getting the image of his dad in the home. Drool slowly drips from the side of his jaw as he pisses himself for the fifth time that morning. Vegetation is a word that springs to mind. His dad will never remember the times they used to play catch in the summer. Every time he see's his dad, that memory will die a little. Every time he see's his dad, his dad will die a little.
He's in the car going to this kid's party. Some rich kid in the suburbs. His own are at his wife's mothers. She hates him. His wife is having an operation and he can't afford to miss this gig and be with her when she wakes up. His dad's status isn't getting any better. He had to wash his shirt this morning because it was soaked in his brother's tears from when he held him last night. He came to the door not knowing what to do. Neither of them knew what to do. He takes a left in his car. His suit is uncomfortable to drive in. His make up is rushed because he had to tidy the kid's rooms before he left the house. He finds this rich house with it's big glass windows and huge colourful happy birthday banner. He drops his cigarette on the ground and stubs it out with his over-sized novelty red clown shoes. "Let's get this over with" he says to himself. To the ghosts that surround him.
And as he sits there on the floor against the wall, his makeup running down one side of his face from comatose tears, he thinks to himself: "What a wonderful world"
Jangly.
Fun, happy times.
The paid fool will dance about at his hourly rate. Keeps the nippers entertained while the dads discuss golf and the mums get acceptably drunk. The kids are laughing at him. They pull on his clothes and his hair and his nose and his skin and they rip and they punch and they kick and he screams. And they stop.
He screams, they stop, they're all watching him. Watching him stand there, motionless. They watch him as he falls to the ground, falls to his knees, back onto his heals, out comes his legs and he's sat there against the wall. Eyes still. Arms by his sides. Sitting there, muscles dead. His white makeup runs down his left cheek as one tear falls from one eye, into his lap and out into the world.
He only took on this job because he did drama at school once. And that was just to get out of geography. His wife needs medical care and he needs the money. Her income is gone, he's got little kids at home, she needs all these drugs and operations and he needs to pay. His dad got rushed to hospital this morning. He had a stroke. He's got to feed the kids. He's got to pay for the dog's vet bill. He's got to pick up his wife from the ward. Cancer is a horrible disease. He keeps getting the image of his dad in the home. Drool slowly drips from the side of his jaw as he pisses himself for the fifth time that morning. Vegetation is a word that springs to mind. His dad will never remember the times they used to play catch in the summer. Every time he see's his dad, that memory will die a little. Every time he see's his dad, his dad will die a little.
He's in the car going to this kid's party. Some rich kid in the suburbs. His own are at his wife's mothers. She hates him. His wife is having an operation and he can't afford to miss this gig and be with her when she wakes up. His dad's status isn't getting any better. He had to wash his shirt this morning because it was soaked in his brother's tears from when he held him last night. He came to the door not knowing what to do. Neither of them knew what to do. He takes a left in his car. His suit is uncomfortable to drive in. His make up is rushed because he had to tidy the kid's rooms before he left the house. He finds this rich house with it's big glass windows and huge colourful happy birthday banner. He drops his cigarette on the ground and stubs it out with his over-sized novelty red clown shoes. "Let's get this over with" he says to himself. To the ghosts that surround him.
And as he sits there on the floor against the wall, his makeup running down one side of his face from comatose tears, he thinks to himself: "What a wonderful world"
posted by TokenArtStudent at 6:52:00 pm
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home