Circus Fantasies

Outside the tent

Neck thrown back

Eyes undressing

An almost undressed

Belly-up dancer

On the poster

With the green background.

 

She beckons

Wearily

Through the stains

Left by rains

 

The boy stares.

Long grey streaks disappear

The greasy crease

Non-existent.

 

The side show

Is a front show

With a nipple

For his thoughts.

 

II

 

Fatima dancing

For turbaned prince

Of oil rich emirate

The prince of millions

Sits timorous

Before her

Mouth agape

Eyes slit.

 

Her black hair

Is the instrument

Is the music

Sliding around her shoulders

As a shawl

Then disappears

As if it wasn’t there at all.

 

Six times

Twenty times

It re-emerges

It disappears

Mesmerizing beyond purpose

Until the prince

Shakes his head to break the spell

Only to become

Captivated

By a single bead of sweat

Just below her neck

Begins to roll

Slowly

Slowly

Slowly

Pore by pore

Moving to the space

Between

Her breasts

 

He blinks

She twirls

Tantalizingly turning

To the Grand Vizier.

 

Turbaned boy left alone

Surrounded by broken reverie.

 

He reaches out to pull her back

But she has stretched her forehead

To the ground

In base obeisance

Moving from the room

To the arms

Of the Big Bald Nubian Slave..

 

The emirate sub-potentate

Calls for Ka

Slave child of his own.

He cannot savage her

With the dance of the hidden hair

So close to his memory.

 

III

 

A fat, pock-marked aunt

Grabs the boy by the arm

Jerks him around

His chin juts shut

with clicking teeth

Fatima

Becomes the coarse

Flaked flawed

Oilcloth poster

Of the current reality.

 

The sting of tears

Surprise; disappointment

A moment, a wetness

To be remembered

Throughout the years.

 

Always is hear

A discouraging word

From the fat assed aunt

Impatient

With the suddenly found

Lost boy.

 

Dragging roughly

Speaking toughly

About once and future tragedies

Of boys

Going blind

As bats

And speaking of bats

Bats as big as armadillos

Biting children who dares to stray-----

 

She stops

A sentence caught in her throat

With a little mew suddenly possessed by

The image of Strongman.

Classic leopardskin

Black mustache

Shaved head

Black dumbbells

Shiny black globes

Connected with a single rod.

Aunt struck

Dumbly

Knees weak

Sweat running down her sides

A vague form of panting

Coming from her thick

Mustachioed mouth.

 

IV

 

Why was she always in these situations?

Trapped and strapped

Against her will

Chained to cold, damp stone walls

 

Stripped

Of her dignity

And most of her clothes

She strains against chains

Nipples rubbing

Against coarse cotton cloth

That barely covers.

 

As if the fault were hers.

A born beauty

A born Heiress

Perfect bait

Sexually deranged kidnappers

Demanding ransom

And much more.

 

The big one from Moravia

Pretending gentleness

Manufacturing sensitivity

From eyes

Caressing her slowly

Pretending to console.

 

This then was to be the moment 

western beauty ravaged

by eastern bloc head

 

Alone

Afraid

Untraded for money or for spies

She awaits her fate

With terrible expectancy.

 

The giant metal door

Pushes inward

Dogboneavich passes through

Eyes no longer soft

 

Unashamed and sneering

He stands

Massive arms and hands across his chest

Legs spread apart.

 

With cruel sneersmile

He raises one arm to strike.

 

V

 

The aunt feels sticky moisture in her hand.

Ice cream cone

Melting

White tears

Gluing her  fingers.

 

“Come on nephew,” she sighs

“we’ve been here a very long time.

It’s time to go home.”