Come the Clowns


Come the clowns to vacuum. Throw couches. Chop entertainment center into kindling. Mow topline polkadot plush. Suck up regret and wonderment.

Dustbag fills. Shitdust bunnies leave trail.

Shape of a big N on your living room floor.


Come the clowns to read the meter. Brandishing clipboards.

Back of your house. Levels: yellow.

Honking horns beneath your window. Laying on your doorbell.

Dash outside. Check the commotion. Duck the clipboards!


Come the clowns wielding swords.

Acrobats wanna rumble.

Snap snap
Snap snap

Acrobats take flight. Tumble preen twist. Knot together midair.

Clowns fall to a knee. Proposing. Blades up.

Acrobats separate. Dive-bomb.

Clown swords not made of rubber.

Acrobats impaled.

Makeup begins where blood ends. Blood begins where makeup ends.


Come the clowns to the salad bar. Stack up croutons. Pile on olives. Drown leaves under ranch dressing.

Dumping salads on frizzy wigs. Smushing plates on bulbous noses.

Busboy shaking his head. Towel over shoulder. Shuffles backstage to get the mop.


Come the clowns to impale your meter. Propose your makeup. Clipboard your salad.

Chop up the busboy.

Vacuum your blood.


About the author:

Peter Vaeth lives and writes outside of Chicago. He is the founding editor of Fiction Funhouse and his various writings regularly appear there: