Cirque de la Lune (Valkyrie)
Dyer-Bolique, your humour astounds me,
Words so bold and yet painfully dry,
Though I am not so deceived,
But I am intrigued,
And longing to make that clown cry.
We wait beneath the canopy of the trees,
Morose, hideously masked, noxious.
We wait for the inevitable, mismatched battle,
As the clown’s date rejects her potential mate.
Dyer-Bolique, diabolical in his deviant planning,
Meticulous in his over-abundance of supplies,
Has woken the sleeping dragon.
Bear trap and barbed wire, pulleys abound,
Mechanically minded he guides, ever attentive,
Always paying note to their troubled discourse’s climax.
Prim and proper leaves first, nose high in the air,
Disgusted by her blind date’s plain appearance,
She strides furiously into the trees.
Silent bait, for the clown will eventually follow,
Silent, but must be forever silenced,
The bear trap snaps…
Silence breaks into a raucous, short-lived scream,
Silence endures as my lover’s blade steals her head,
Send in the clowns, he comes, unable to accept reality.
Phone’s light guiding, he sees her, behind a stump,
Her head stands tall on a branch, summoning the fool,
Hurriedly he runs, trips, wire tightens about his ankle.
There the pendulum swings, hanging inverted,
Shocked as I approach, such a sight for sore eyes,
Bionic woman, he pleads for assistance, cries for help.
I push his form as it hangs by one leg, it swings again,
Implores and fights, I tilt my head nonchalantly,
Thrilled, impassive, detached, I flay with lash.
Cleaves clothes from flesh, and flesh from bone,
Another swift movement gnaws another welt,
As my Urumi rises for a third strike,
Dyer-Bolique grabs and clasps my wrist tight.
Into my hand the hilt is placed, machete ready, sharp,
Taking a step back, and drawing my strength,
And drive the blade down vertically.
One half of the clown slithers down,
Better a quick death than to drown.