Dark Humour

A short piece themed for the 1st of April.

The glorious days, when I paint my face, and they clap happily to their new mime. While you paint it, and it is only I and a few of those dirty servers that snicker behind our breaths. The day is long, and the fence is high. And surprisingly, I am questioning my own escape.

We are the mimes.

The animals that look the part in this worldwide circus.

Writers. Actors. People of art.

Jesters.

Entertainers.

We were born to entertain you, oh sweet reader. My lovely reader. Wasting your precious seconds, putting two and two together until it forms a letter.

Don’t we all?

Well, not me. No, not me. I have no education. We don’t need an education.

You call me gifted; you called her gifted last week as well.

But poor piggy Juliet was stuffed and silenced with an apple, prepared for our righteous king Romeo. And today is my day to walk the gilded cage.

Shiny. Groomed and smooth. Makeup showing off my smile and heavy balls to juggle with doubt and courage.

Alas, Mama said it must be done. So I follow. Herd or no. Bounds or boundaries.

They all said I should love it. The opportunity.

To even be here.

To see the curtains open, to see their open eyes ready to devour me as if I were one of their breed. But oh, by far, they would not breed. No no. Such an absurd thought. Royal bedding is a fine-tuned sheep. Only for a chance of a new experience, not for a lifestyle.

Not for desire.

Only a fool would follow.

But before I try to fix my bow or bell, their hands shove me in. Onto a carpet that is worth twice my life. And well, perhaps it is best to say that the carpet was worth that price until my shit-covered soles graced it.

No worries. He smiles. Romeo, oh Romeo, you smile at me.

Desire, amusement.

And I juggle for you.

All that I can. All that I am.

Mama calls me April, the late bloom.

Papa never calls me. No. He writes scribbles.

And precisely that makes me wonder about my true calling. An act.

But oh, they clap. I smile and shed them pink. Showing off all my colors. Just so the innocent humanity can drool a little more. Just so I can catch a glint of elite wrinkles upon their eyes.

Outrageous, such wishes for little me.

Outrageous me, to drool from an open wound.

They beckon my spine to shape and frame the left.

They devour at my right.

Oh, I have no right, don’t you remember?

We are only Artisans. The pigs for slaughter, the chicks for devour, the sheep for comfort. And it brings you comfort. To see April The Fool.

Make it a day. Make it my day.

I wish, I only wish.

No. They will entrap it into servitude.

We will follow.

We will whine for more. We’ll cry for recognition.

The bee, until the bye.

Oh, but what does it matter when Romeo sits so stiff right in front of me?

I step forward, and he leans.

What if I galloped?

So the thought arises.

But not quick enough to save my cloth from tearing.

Drool is what they are.

Babbling big-eyed freaks.

For the freak show.

For the circus.

And I shake to entertain just for their grace and a penny.

They serve them soup and plates with forks.

I sit at the table.

Their hands pet me and honor the groomed blooms.

In such awe for a sheep of low class.

Shocking, is it not?

To encounter mud trapped creature and then put jewels on it, as if it will taste better for the fucking.

Oh, but again, I lose my patience. My juggle no longer as entertaining.

Nor are you, to be fair.

Who am I to entertain? You or Romeo? Pick and choose.

I say I juggle, but I cannot.

It is an act, have you forgotten?

They bring a knife. Shiny jewel to press against my neck.

I look at my destined Romeo, shy prayers for His Grace to spare me a dime or a glance.

We were destined. For it all. For the palace and the Fools day. Either you make them laugh, or they shall bloat with this anticipation for release. Such a reverse for what you believe.

What do I believe?

Oh well. Thank you for asking.

And truth is, I have words in my mouth and parrots as thoughts. A bubble that bursts, and the one that they chuckle for.

They call me bad-mouthed and yet laugh with bellies jiggling.

I’m on my hands and knees, lapping at their choice for soup as someone stabs me in the side.

Slice of fur and a muffed retaliation.

Laughing at the nature of their own.

“Entertain me, you fool!”

And we bow, I bow too.

I am but a sheep.

Falling deep for Romeo and his position.

“Dance for me, you silly sheep!”

I shake all that jingles, all that has been shaped for eyes.

“Plate her.”

And the rooms change.

Chains that bite into the wrists.

Sheers that will make me scream.

Bare before His Grace. Watching him wear me.

Juggle.

Heavens forbid your craft gets recognized and desired too much.

Just stay with the rules.

Or don’t.

Break the fence.

No, you wouldn’t.

We are just sheep.

Just you and me.

Only the surface can I see that sweaty soul that crouches before the machine.

“Humour me.”