The boyish facade of that dynastic king
promises a pyramid of facsimile amusement,
a lame gold mask that falsely tames the rural mile,
and royally tenders the shrieking greens of spring.
What is drawn from the sapphire clouds
is also condensed in a spooky window:
a solo pine cone alone is spared in view
atop the hallowed spokes of spiral rubber.
Sycophantic circus freaks shuffle at last,
worshiping the retro karaoke of pecking divas,
at last the howls of where and squeals of when
are burst from the belly of a bulging tomb:
welcome to the threshold of banality.
Spun in a syrupy four part stigmata
odd sockets of the savior's sugary skull
have ceased to be a harmony that soothes.
Little Tina's sweet shack is barely stocked,
but emotions run high when the carny's in town.