The 10 Days Of Gregory Corso's "Clown"

4

I still don't know if the clown should die;
there's yet the black greyhound, the lioned battle axe;
the champ of heaven leaning against a cloud
            with crossed feet;
and the doomed myth
            centered in man war.

If there were no clown
but demoned whiskers shaking pale blue flowers;
if there were no smile
no climb of cherubim with lute and horn
no silvery chest, no suncast jug, no basin for swans,
not the delicate forge itself;
I doubt the reward of Paradise
to be a place where happy old friends meet.

If the clown were dead
the month of August would be weighed
            with sacks of sour wheat.
Dead the clown, there'd be havoc!
The angel's jeweled apse
            would collide
            and smash a ray of doves!
Fauns would lay waste the wood
            with faun-chewed babes!
Oily melancholy fits the black boot
now that the clown thinks to die.
Men the size of islands
            sink their joy in the helpless protect of Death.

O the whole tragedy! the weight of it!
with complaints to laughter not come--
Tickle then the clown to sleep for sleep he needs;
glum days poor America bares--
Old America could tell of laughter often as clowns tell--
Ben Franklin, W. C. Fields, Chaplin, the fat of joy!
Their happy light is forged phalanx, charge!

Snakes search the skies for flying rabbits;
monkies draft jackels--is the clown dead?
I grieve to futures a fishy grin,
for as I am I gloom of history.
A comical corruption! Death's indeathity!
The clocked tower's scythed crime
bodes sorrow and the life of man equal time.