Hannah Carr-Murphy

There’s a clown with a knife in the kitchen—
again I’m foaming at the mouth about the subject of my obsession.
Desire is not shameful, but mine is.
Translation: all my friends deserve to be happy (not me).
I’ve been thinking about the binary between the jester and the buffoon.
I’ve been demarcating clown boundaries, speaking in clown dialectics.
Last night I dreamt I held hands with a dear friend,
today the light is harsh-white grease paint.
I’m being rightfully dragged in the groupchat:
bespoke memes describe my buffoonery.
The knife of jester’s privilege has two sharp edges.
He doesn’t even think of me, and
I am drive-to-the-wrong-airport stupid over it.
 

The KFCs in my hometown were managed by John Wayne Gacy
I’m from a clown people, clown region.
Everyone laughs about it, just watch.
I’m going streetcar-named-desire in this Olive Garden
over a buttered noodle boy.
Even now, I line my eyes with red and blue,
don’t kill the clown within,
kill the clown that cringes.