The Material Tent

I’ve feed the dogs again.
Those wretched, howling, barking, scarred sacks of meat.
Luckily, the cool rain has only just begun to smack down around this little slice of Hell.

Somewhere, not too far away, the fat hairy lady is calling out for her tiny dogs to come inside.
They never listen to her,
but she loves them anyway.

Most of the freaks are out running and rolling in the dust.
Trying to get their fun in before it all turns to mud.

Above us all, God is clapping his hands together.
Applauding our sin, as the lights flash on and off.

The ringmaster is drunk again, he started early today.
By now he’s probably letting his tongue slither towards one of the acrobats.
Or one of the freaks.

The ragged Lions roam their cage.
Hungry for meat, but with nowhere to hunt.
Their eyes shine with desperation, and forgotten thoughts of jungles.

Everything around here smells of straw and shit.
Sometimes sweat.

It’s almost dinner time, and I’ve still gotta grease the machines.

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