Clown Court

I wanted to be a poet but the words wouldn’t come. I wanted to be a poet but nothing came out of me but creaks and groans. The creaks and groans of rusty machinery. ‘Where are the splendid words?’ I scream petulantly, ‘where are all the magnificent, wonderful words?’

 

I was up in court that afternoon and it wasn’t looking good for me – clown molecules had been detected during the course of the forensic examination and the authorities were determined to prosecute me to the limit of the law. The chief prosecutor was making a meal of it – a consummate master of slapstick, he had the jury rolling about helplessly on the floor. He had them in stitches.

 

‘Where are all the great words?’ I moan, ‘where are all those great, great words?’ I was crying tears of pure frustration; things weren’t turning out the way I wanted them to at all – I wanted poetic sentiment but all I got was verbal sludge. I wanted exquisite nuances but all I got was cheap innuendo. ‘All bad things come to he who waits’, I observe tartly, ‘Anyone with any sense at all knows to get the hell out of there fast. If you hang around you’re going to catch it good and proper and then you’ll be sorry. What kind of idiot is going to sit there waiting for the axe to fall? Our thoughts – our clever, clever thoughts – tell us to run and so we should!’

 

Solemn eyes are staring – staring and staring and staring. We know what’s supposed to happen, the problem is that it never does. It never bloody does happen and that’s what’s getting me down. That’s what’s getting me down big time. ‘Why does the thing that supposed to happen never happen?’ I wail, ‘why is my life such a joke?’ The solemn rows of eyes continued to stare – I had never seen so many eyes. They grew from the ground on stalks, gay and carefree but at the same time ominously vigilant. Vigilant for signs of evil.

 

‘Always progress to the superior state’, my thoughts tell me, ‘always progress, always progress…’ I struggled to obey, as always. ‘Must obey the thoughts, must obey the thoughts’, my thoughts tell me earnestly. ‘Always achieve the correct goals!’ Struggling to achieve, struggling to achieve all day long, struggling miserably to achieve. Always progress to the superior state, achieve wonderful exultation whatever the cost. Never accept second best…

 

And there is a cost, isn’t there? There is always a cost. Life congeals all around you and free movement quickly becomes impossible. The rank smell of thwarted ambition rises from all around you like a choking smog. Your days have become a burden to you but still you strive, still you struggle. ‘Follow our advanced teachings and you will never have to hate your life again’, say the spiritual gurus. ‘Instead,’ they tell us, ‘you will find supreme redemptive mastery.’ The rank smell of thwarted ambition. The evil odour of incipient failure, endemic failure, systematic failure – failure too appallingly hideous to look at…

 

Clown molecules had been detected at the scene of the crime and the street had been duly cordoned off by heavily armed robots. A horror story was about to unfold and I for one didn’t want to hang around to witness it! I for one, I for one. The unbearable stench of my own incipient failure is like atrocious body odour – it gives me away every time. The street empties as if by magic as I approach. I was due in court that afternoon but everyone knew it wasn’t serious.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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