The Circus Never Comes to Hell

There are days, as you may already know

that move slower than unpunished murder

There are arsonists who make more money than you

And when the blue blues come on a bright summer day

Sun whirling around the fields of some nightmare

Uncompromisingly backhanding the sweltering pulse of everything

into a much deeper understanding

I take my wine

In these moments logs lay deeper than they ever have

and insects infect their drone to the world

as there was no time left for the final copulation

And elsewhere

Virginity exposes her membrane to the blood sword of finality

These mornings take all there is to spend

and by mid afternoon of this century

Nothing but the hand of Mercury will bring any sense of message through the wavering heat

There are days that move faster than pursuit

and always somewhere, some bastard lies with the gravity of a borrowed wife

And people like you and me sit on our complacent orbs

while a man presses a knife to his own temple

but not our man

A woman is gutted and spread to the fields

but not our woman

Babies are being disemboweled by psychotic rape

but not our baby

The horses lay broken, chicks crushed underfoot

but not our reality, not our glass of wine

Somewhere, a soul vanishes for lack of compassion

Should there be any reason why we feel the pain of others

as we gaze upon the simple flower?

And what will make our tears worth the ultimate price

of a day in the hot, retching sun?

Tears are the private master of Science

And every hot summer day brings the sorrowful kiss of cancer