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An Encounter With The Great Milenko and his Dark Carnival

An Encounter With The Great Milenko and his Dark Carnival

Necro Master • December 13, 2017 • Art • 

Death follows like a whiskey fire carried inside. They poured it in the creek park all day long. Whoop. Calling offices, meetings drones and no faces are painted. Fill my cup. Take me to the theater. I want to join the circus but have not been initiated. Honest intentions presented, we come in chill with darkness, despite how much black I wear and the inability to speak without the sound of sarcasm, belonging makes me curious. The struggalo is real. Cops ride the ticket line length on bicycles, reports of gang activity, the lower class in Boulder, I hide my middle finger with a bottle in my underpants, a robot watches electric, the cold is ending. The party is moving, the show is starting. Two microphones and a backing track. I am with my people who are with their people, there are a lot of people here together. Dreams come true after enough emails. Local openings. Dreams get made up in the shadows. The other side, almost made it. The stage is empty, are you going to riot on it? My mind and head have separated and are fighting for my body, body taking up space and running on stairs with stickers trying not to escape, we are the waiting. Black curtains. If I close my eyes the lights go off, when I open them the clowns have grown horns and emotions are falling out their void mouths. My face is a mask, I did not choose it. Everybody can see right at it, have I no shame, I have lost concepts of honesty. Will you dance with me? Nobody asks. Can I watch? I dance with Death’s lady in public, cannot see her face, can see his face, it is wrinkled red bursts of holes, there are two pointed right at us, when the song stops he points and there is cheering, the music picks she grabs my hand and we are three thieves cheeky in the night. Sweet like Lucifer, covered in Faygo. I am so full of sugar don’t know where my friends are. In hell your friends and ninjas are everywhere but there are bosses. Death’s head tilts, Death on stilts, composes balance, bass drop beer drip, the sticky floor hops hips in upright rhythm. The Confederacy burns for a big mac and screaming and the tearing of flags and gnashing of teeth and grinding of stars on the back of broken fabric. I am wetness entire. Cover me, shove soda in my scars. Shaking, two liter containers, the carpet is a river, electricity drunk. Garbage bags conceal walls, the trashed go out at closing time. We made the air warm, the government watches because they envy weather control. They send the big men out to the Pearl St Mall with orders and megaphones to freak us out, make us doubt ourselves, distort the voices. The big men yell instructions, reeducation, what it is and isn’t okay to do in cubicles, the forms and hours, plans and judgement, mickey mouse and christians, who the fuck why huh, do you hear this, Death, do you see him too? Smoke me to stupid, please. Was that him? And his friend?  I’ve had enough of these faces and need another drink. On grandma’s floor under tinted windows I am alone again free not to think. I think.

Ten beers and a gummy bear later I was seeing clowns in the bushes. Water. I need water. Walk a deluded two miles to Lolita’s open 24/7, my saving grace. Are the Boulder Chips poisoned? That’s what I told myself spitting them out. Big Brother yelling with a loud mouth speaker. Get a cushy job, live life meager. Black and white pictures taken with an unknown motive. Two months later and identity still shaken. This is how we X you out. Got psychotic and jumped in the back of a van. Honda Hotel. Voodoo pulling cards. I said “I like your mask” he said “This is my face.” She said “He likes your face.” Ambient noise patters like orchestrated percussion, walk back and see the orchestrations leaders, Ring Masters. Step by step by step walk myself out of the swirling vortex of chaos magic. Blasted out speakers at the front of the theater. This is our domain for next tentative hours. Showed with Faygo, dripping wet. Watch your step, know who you are dealing with. One way or another it will be one or the other. Good or evil. The hatchet man runs wild on the edges. Circling trepidation. Any creed class or nation, doesn’t matter as long as you’re breathing. Needing closure. There is no closure. One loud bass drop boom kick later, and here I am. Here you are. We continue later.


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