“Pickled Punk”

Be it seen through the lens 

   of a murky Mason jar, 

when it comes to so called 

   artified painting, 

I figure the only sort I’m partial to 

is that which gathers as smears 

n’ strokes n’ shuddered spurts 

‘cross a drape of unfurled canvas.

 

Not that said cloth was ever 

meant to be stretched in a frame. 

 

No, this particular canvas hung 

from hand-erect poles via 

lengths of rope lashed taunt and 

bound to pounded stakes.

 

I suppose said carnal 

spew of paint  

had less to do 

with the art itself, 

but rather that 

which it advertised 

as available there on the 

weave’s wanton side. 

 

There upon the canvas’s 

weathered outer surface, 

you’d find a rendered assortment 

of swirling butterflies, with their 

ornate wings pigment portrayed 

   in sundry states of flight. 

A Kaleidoscope of Lepidottera; 

a voluptuous vignette 

of flit, flutter n’ hover. 

Beauty on buoyant wing. 

 

Above them the words, 

   “Painted Ladies”, 

and yet should you choose to proceed 

through the tent’s labial lapel, 

you will not find 

a single butterfly. 

Nor will you find    

a lady.

 

The Marquee, 

   the Midway, 

      the roaring Menagerie Top. 

Its untamed tent of tooth and talon; 

its contained cage of canine and claw. 

And yet   I find   no thrill. 

 

There in the grandiose Big Top, 

a willow woman walks 

   the high guy-wire. 

A man of uncertain caliber 

is shot with a blast from a canon. 

Someone does a triple somersault, 

yet hasn’t the common curtesy 

to fall unto his death. 

 

Me?

I want the grease; the guise; 

the flamboyant costume. 

I want the tussle teased 

   and tinctured hair. 

The penciled arch eyebrow. 

Those exaggerated lips. 

Mascara encrusted lashes. 

Enamel fortified fingernails. 

Their hint and flaunt of flay foreplay. 

Each bosom braced in bodice. 

Each doxy dressed to kill, 

to kill, 

and yet   I find   no thrill. 

 

All that which I can see, 

yet that I cannot touch. 

I with malformed withered hands 

which lurk amidst the murk. 

These lucid eyes 

which here abide 

inside a ferment 

of formaldehyde. 

 

And here I share a tent with 

said Kaleidoscope o’ Butterflies. 

Assorted painted ladies 

of ill skill repute. 

 

Look!

Look over there! 

Its she who they call “Carousel”. 

She who goes round 

and up and down. 

 

There!    Just there! 

The one they have come to call “Dagger”. 

Indeed, she who can swallow a sword. 

 

“Sister Sledge” and her sensuous swing. 

Money back should she fail to ring your bell.

 

The one they call “Pin Cushion”, 

for she gets laid upon 

a bounceless bed of nails.

 

The one by the name of “Slither”. 

‘Tis she of the reptilian hand 

which charms the salty spit 

   out of any slimy snake.

 

And in sashays “Inferno”. 

She/He who brings the flame. 

Infer her know not whether he/she 

be gendered woman or man. 

 

“Miss Chang” and “Miss Eng”. 

Those conjoined twisted twins. 

Two for one pay to lay. 

 

And there in the corner sits “Cancer”. 

She who carries the crabs. 

She whose womb can dare withstand 

the assault of lurid and leprous disease. 

Lord knows that we’ve 

got enough customers 

to fill her catacomb womb. 

 

Assorted Painted Ladies 

beneath this Sideshow Tent. 

Each with their given name there in paint, 

whilst beneath their actual skin, 

they all remain      

enigmas.

 

And here I sit upon the shelf, 

my only desire to suckle a breast, 

yet of whom I could not tell you. 

 

They behind paint 

with their fabricated names; 

I behind glass with 

the one which I was given. 

 

I?

I’ve always been known 

as the “Pickled Punk”. 

 

I, the fetus, 

afloat in formaldehyde. 

Forever gazing forth at this 

fade of Painted Ladies. 

 

Knowing oh so well 

that one of them is      

my mother. 

 

Ó2019 Jack David Hubbell