I Left Her in the Care of 27 Clowns

(About a 2 minute read)

To Sarah, who asked for a funny, witty poem,and got this one instead, poor woman.

She graced the Whitmore College of Fine Arts
As the athletic captain of its Cheerleading Squad.
Her tall, well-proportioned body was crowned
By a face that endlessly inspired students
And staff alike to create representational art
That tragically served mostly as masturbatory aides,
For so few of us could resist indulging ourselves
In her beauty, being artists and all.

Her one discernible flaw as a human
Was that she aspired to no better life
Than to be the groupie of an artist,
For she had been raised up depraved
In the walled compound of an Indiana cult
Of transplanted Portuguese finger-painters
To think women naturally fulfilled themselves
Only by their services to men.

I alone dared to depart from mere representations
Of her by creating conjectural interpretations
Of her vagina as the cauldrons of volcanoes
Orgasmically exploding in joy.

Naturally, she recognized in me
An important contemporary master
And wanted nothing more than to reward me
With the friendship of her upper thighs.

I teasingly held her off in order
To turn her kinky with mounting desire
Until one night we slaked our lusts
Using only a feather duster,
A toilet bowl plunger, two thorny roses,
A length of silk rope, an electric
Train transformer, a bible (King James),
A goat outfit, and to bring us to orgasm,
A compact car with 27 circus clowns.

It was all under-kill, of course,
But I did not want to alarm her
About what was in store for us next,
And it sufficed for our first time.

Yet nothing I could say
Could persuade her to use birth control
For the Portuguese fathers had preached
Lies that the pills would gradually
Alter her DNA, turning her at last
Into a polka dotted midget with a lust
To have her way with rabbits.

Of course, I had to dump her
For what artist can work in a studio
Strewn with diapers and the toys
Of a dozen demented children?

Nevertheless I ethically
Softened the impact
Of my abandonment
By leaving her in the care
Of the 27 clowns.

8 thoughts on “I Left Her in the Care of 27 Clowns”

      1. There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask; how do you manage to write so much. Has the devil agreed to allow you 240-hour days in return for your soul? Come to that are YOU the devil? Because if so, I’ll consider any reasonable bid on my soul – provided it involves ripe avocados and really nice jugs.

        Not those sorts of jugs – the kind with a handle and a spout..


      2. Couple reasons. Right now, I haven’t been painting recently, which when I get at it, absorbs most of my time. Second, I write fast as lightening licks the sky. Indeed, I write almost as fast as I think sometimes. In part, that might be overconfidence that what I’m saying is worth saying.

        Also I’ve got a deal for 72 virgins in paradise if I martyr myself by suffering a heart attack while writing fast. Virgins terrify me, but I plan on fixing their status ASAP, right after Allah and I have exchanged mutual praise and compliments.


  1. Paul, this is not a comedy, but a tragedy! The unwritten implication of this poem is, after that kind of sexual treatment, she ended up as a polka-dotted rabbitophile after all. I’m not sure if you can change height but I’ll bet some of the surrounding clowns are on stilts.


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