This little archive we are building looks at clowns in tales, poetry, film. We look at ourselves.
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The story of a CLown
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The sound, the sound
of a creaky old rusty accordion
churning out melodies of New WorLd
which is now an old world.
Its bellows retract
as I'm traveling back in time,
I just want to be there.
I need a home and I don't want this body no more,
for its purpose seems only the need of this earth which I find
less and less of exist,
just the sound of a moving carousel.
Counter-clockwise it welcomes me back with
visuals of mirrors moving round and round,
clowns dancing and singing songs.
waiting for me to join them with
opened mouth, enticing to be popped into a wooden ball,
inviting me back to where me and my friend, this naked soul needs belong.
by Roy Payamal
The story of a CLown
00000000000000000
The sound, the sound
of a creaky old rusty accordion
churning out melodies of New WorLd
which is now an old world.
Its bellows retract
as I'm traveling back in time,
I just want to be there.
I need a home and I don't want this body no more,
for its purpose seems only the need of this earth which I find
less and less of exist,
just the sound of a moving carousel.
Counter-clockwise it welcomes me back with
visuals of mirrors moving round and round,
clowns dancing and singing songs.
waiting for me to join them with
opened mouth, enticing to be popped into a wooden ball,
inviting me back to where me and my friend, this naked soul needs belong.
by Roy Payamal
