I was looking on one of my old hard drives and found some very interesting stuff. Among the little gems was a poem that was posted here way back in the day. It reminded me of a Stephen King novel when I first read it and, since Stephen King has just been taken in the Authors draft, I thought it worth sharing again.
Carnival Barker
The Carnival rolled into town early this morning,
Though sputtered would serve as a more suitable recounting of its arrival.
Perhaps the last in a fading lineage of Sideshow entertainment,
I might call it a celebration for the absurd and the indulgent,
But even someone such as myself can't hide my intrigue.
He had just begun when I happened by,
The bullhorn banter routinely reeling them in,
Though I remained more perceptive than participatory,
Reacting to the madness rather than moving with it,
And indeed it moved.
Living and breathing, the Carnival never tired,
And all at the mercy of its manager.
This is more than a Horror Show of indifferent interest,
Its the tale of a man playing the hand he was dealt,
"All in," he says, inspired but ill-fated,
And now resigned to paying a debt of soul,
As if he had carelessly bet against the Devil himself,
But the Carnival Barker is fervent in his occupation, nonetheless,
With all the charm of a door-to-door salesman,
(And indeed he is, in some sense or another).
Speech stammering at some unknown velocity,
Walking absentmindedly along the edge of insanity,
He could easily be balancing on a tightrope of his own,
Aware of the two ton elephant in the room,
But quick to ignore it for fear of reprisal,
He simply preaches, "the show must go on!"
There's no rest for the weary,
And the Carnival Barker is more stride than step.
To his audience, he's clothed in both suit and straightjacket,
He has promised near-death without the cost of one's own life,
And he's a man of his word despite being completely dishonest.
Now heartbeats and drumbeats syncopate as men swallow swords,
And others breathe fire,
While cannonballs are made of humans,
And humans are made into fools,
While fools pay to see this spectacle first hand,
And the Carnival Barker stands center stage, smiling at his production.
Sometimes they applaud, and sometimes they don't,
Either way, at the end of the day, he's profited from the absurdity of it all.
"The show must go on!"
He is an entertainer above all else,
Orchestrating a concerto of dissonance despite denigration,
Haunted by daytime demons that lend themselves to opportunism and rapacity,
Exploiting the willing, the unwilling, and the willful,
Arm wrestling with his own budding sense of morality,
But inevitably losing out to avarice and anxiousness,
And uncertain that life would consider dealing him another hand.
So the Carnival Barker simply soldiers on,
Taking his Symphony of Decay with him,
Instruments ever out of tune,
But with his band of sideshow sycophants following in strangely faithful fashion.
He lacks faith in what can't be rolled up and placed neatly in his pocket,
And he rolls his own cigarettes because he prefers death on his own terms,
(It wouldn't be off to say that he welcomes it).
The summer winds and grinds to a painful punctuation,
And the Carnival Barker finds himself on the same stool in the same dressing room,
Stripped bare of his madness and mystique,
Staring blankly into a cracked and fingerprint-covered mirror,
As if he could find solace in some other part of a clown's brain,
His face showing the weight of the years,
Waiting for the curtain call that never comes,
But no matter,
Dealing with the Devil doesn't grant any kind of joy,
And the show must, indeed, go on...
Curious about the author? He's a member of this forum.
Carnival Barker
The Carnival rolled into town early this morning,
Though sputtered would serve as a more suitable recounting of its arrival.
Perhaps the last in a fading lineage of Sideshow entertainment,
I might call it a celebration for the absurd and the indulgent,
But even someone such as myself can't hide my intrigue.
He had just begun when I happened by,
The bullhorn banter routinely reeling them in,
Though I remained more perceptive than participatory,
Reacting to the madness rather than moving with it,
And indeed it moved.
Living and breathing, the Carnival never tired,
And all at the mercy of its manager.
This is more than a Horror Show of indifferent interest,
Its the tale of a man playing the hand he was dealt,
"All in," he says, inspired but ill-fated,
And now resigned to paying a debt of soul,
As if he had carelessly bet against the Devil himself,
But the Carnival Barker is fervent in his occupation, nonetheless,
With all the charm of a door-to-door salesman,
(And indeed he is, in some sense or another).
Speech stammering at some unknown velocity,
Walking absentmindedly along the edge of insanity,
He could easily be balancing on a tightrope of his own,
Aware of the two ton elephant in the room,
But quick to ignore it for fear of reprisal,
He simply preaches, "the show must go on!"
There's no rest for the weary,
And the Carnival Barker is more stride than step.
To his audience, he's clothed in both suit and straightjacket,
He has promised near-death without the cost of one's own life,
And he's a man of his word despite being completely dishonest.
Now heartbeats and drumbeats syncopate as men swallow swords,
And others breathe fire,
While cannonballs are made of humans,
And humans are made into fools,
While fools pay to see this spectacle first hand,
And the Carnival Barker stands center stage, smiling at his production.
Sometimes they applaud, and sometimes they don't,
Either way, at the end of the day, he's profited from the absurdity of it all.
"The show must go on!"
He is an entertainer above all else,
Orchestrating a concerto of dissonance despite denigration,
Haunted by daytime demons that lend themselves to opportunism and rapacity,
Exploiting the willing, the unwilling, and the willful,
Arm wrestling with his own budding sense of morality,
But inevitably losing out to avarice and anxiousness,
And uncertain that life would consider dealing him another hand.
So the Carnival Barker simply soldiers on,
Taking his Symphony of Decay with him,
Instruments ever out of tune,
But with his band of sideshow sycophants following in strangely faithful fashion.
He lacks faith in what can't be rolled up and placed neatly in his pocket,
And he rolls his own cigarettes because he prefers death on his own terms,
(It wouldn't be off to say that he welcomes it).
The summer winds and grinds to a painful punctuation,
And the Carnival Barker finds himself on the same stool in the same dressing room,
Stripped bare of his madness and mystique,
Staring blankly into a cracked and fingerprint-covered mirror,
As if he could find solace in some other part of a clown's brain,
His face showing the weight of the years,
Waiting for the curtain call that never comes,
But no matter,
Dealing with the Devil doesn't grant any kind of joy,
And the show must, indeed, go on...
Curious about the author? He's a member of this forum.