Bury Me by the Bigtop

[Cyril Darkcloud]

Bury Me by the Bigtop

 

After I'm dead,

just slide me and my box

in somewhere near

the back of the parade --

behind the feathered horses

and the acrobats

and the clowns in the polka dot car,

and after the chain of flatbed trailers

carrying leopards and lions

and a tiger or two

staring out of the bars

of a rusty steel cage.

 

Just have my uncles

or cousins

or children

or friends

or whoever's in charge

of lugging my box

fall into line

and step to the music

of that calliope thing

once the elephants go by.

Yeah, just have the bearers

drag me ahead

of the wagon of monkeys

with their tricks

and their squeals

and the club-footed dwarf with balloons.

Let them shuffle in time

with the fat ladies,

the tattooed misfits,

the sword eating gypsy

and that cute little girl

who walks the high wire.

 

And let everyone else

leave their cars at the church

and step in behind the parade

in their dark suits and dresses

and shiny black shoes

that pinch their feet when they walk.

Let them follow the clatter

of rattling trucks full of tents

and the odor of butter

from those little white popcorn carts.

 

Let's have the whole operation

wander through town

bouncing over the potholes

and chewed up old asphalt

that makes up our streets

with its rumble and swagger

and its music and shaking

and squealing of monkeys

and belches of laughter

pouring out of its guts

until it comes to a stop

at the little league field

at the base of the hill by the creek.

 

And when they're breaking out boxes

and putting up tents

and the grunting and swearing

are flowing out thick

through yellow teeth

hidden behind lips

that are cracked and swollen and scarred,

have them dig me a hole

by the center tent's pole

and then let them drop me on in.

 

And when the tents are set up

and the cages arranged

and the ring master

has loosened his throat,

pile everyone onto

those splintered oak bleachers

and pass out the hot dogs

and the popcorn

and pink cotton candy

and let them sit back

and take in the show

'cuz if I'm in heaven

I'll be partying down

and won't want nobody to cry,

and if I'm in hell,

then the clowns may as well

milk a couple cheap laughs

from that tired old bit

with the pie in the face

while they're tromping around

in those big floppy shoes

over the top of my grave.

[Justin Silverblade]

Very sweet, and (perhaps it's just me) but a little endearing as well. For a poem involving death, it's wonderfully upbeat, and carefree. A great thing to read Cyril. Thanks!

 

 

 

- Justin

 

 

 

PS - now I'm gonna need some popcorn or cotten candy. *sigh*

[Peredhil]

heh. this is great!

 

 

 

We do not write because we want to; we write because we have to.

W. Somerset Maugham

[reverie]

ditto...

 

 

 

 

 

rev...

[Cyril Darkcloud]

I'm a bit surprised that people seem to have primarily picked up on the more playful features of this poem. Almost all of my stuff is written to be read out loud, and this piece was actually written with a more cynical and darkly humorous tone of voice in mind -- of course if one does not supply that vocal inflection at the outset, these words can easily produce a rather different experience.