The Joke

Black and violet flush
over the chimneys.
Butter slops in pools
from streetlight torches.
The clowned moon,
gipsy queen
of a pagan rodeo,
rides the wheeling stars.

The joke pants
in the gutter,
with a potty mouth,
an empty belly,
an acid tongue;
swollen evictee
of the never never,
candidate prince
of the undone.

His mealy blabber
echoes the walls
of the lady's chamber,
shivering the paper
with gripe and low
mildewed laughter.
Her correspondence
curls and blackens,
the letters promenade,
spirals & hieroglyphs
burlesque and wink
across the flaming leaf,
signs born of signs
high kick and split,
dazzle and break her eyes.

In the street,
midnight's wise guys
cock their hats
swivel on their toes
play charades and sing
selections from the latest shows.
Collapsed hysteric
writhing in a puddle
the joke at last cracks,
head spilled of sweets,
martyred pinata,
gurgling his secrets
to potted shrubs,
begging papal audience
of a blind old dog.

Stars and paper hearts
whisper and drop
from his damp fingers,
as dawn races
to crown his wisps,
to smother and stamp
his charred remains,
evacuate the spot,
and turn the sticky tide
of midnight's overflowing glot.