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  • HER


Golden tickets lay in the Jesters belly, thinking the king a fool. His suit of colors a skin worn thin within his performance, superior.

He lays nuggets of probable cause, balloon animals sold as meat.

Air, his air, laughter, his property.

Calls to judgement lay in wait under the mask of understanding. Fraud, he is a Court Jester after all.

Tales and coat feathers fluffing as he recites a comedy long gone. His Rite of passage is knowing he’s not the fool. It’s those that fall for life’s foolery, they are the ones less worthy. Less worthy of all the fun. Uninvited. And deserve only performance.

These tales of wonder bleeding from the lips of the chosen. Tales hidden in popularity contests and designs of utopia, designed to support only a chosen few.


These clowns hide behind smiles, slogans, and bright ideas. Carrying banners and wearing badges declaring normal, positive, and happy.


They are the angry, the twisted, the lost. They are the ones declining to tune in, declaring the truth beneath them. And refusing to participate.

They are the broken link in the chain that connects us all. They are the decided few. The better than.

Skin pirates with commercials.

Don’t stand behind your cross, albeit wooden, walking, or dead. Don’t hold a smile while behind it is spit, judgement, and repulsion. You are the repulsive, the fraud, the fake. You are the problem and the reason so many find themselves lost.


The one with all the tricks, the props, the laughter, and the glass half full. The one that tells tall stories about forgiveness, joy, and light. And the one with the advert reading peace, love, and connectivity.

You are disgusted by the torment of life, so you ignore those tormented. Not realizing the torment, is you.

Who’s the comedy for, if not those in need of laughter?

You are selective, punitive, and it’s you, that’s broken.

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