Where are the clowns? Quick, send in the clowns.
Welcome indeed to my Cabaret. Don’t you love farce? The wigs, feather bows and scarfs. The showers of applause while I make my entry. But there’ll come a time when no one is there to watch.
And I can picture it..for one last time, once again – all attention shall be turned to me. And the stone would read: Here lies an artist, no less. And one would say, “how fucked up. What a pity!”.
Clowns to a cabaret!! That’s Shakespeare’s “stage” evolved ….life’s showtime epitomised.
The Show must go on even when Reality presents superficial and patronising spectators, all too ready to leave in disgust with no adieu, their venom lining your next stage. I think I am smart because there are fools out there who don’t even know it’s all but a performance to satisfy the many directors, themselves included. But what can be worse than those fools but my pitiful self…rotting in the stage, knowing its toxicity and yet begs to ferment in it…..if life stinks, I made it stink…so the clowns fart, I don’t see the humour of it but laugh and savour the stench as perfume that feeds my self inflicted sorrows. “How fucked up. What a pity!”