Exhibit B

you are the circus star
who left home three months ago
forgot what his mother used to say
each morning before she poured coffee
into peach porcelain mugs. the memory
haunts you, taunts you,
rubs all the rogue monsters
into smudged charcoal portraits
hanging there in the gallery
you rented when
you thought there might be hope
for hapless posturing. but
edgy exhibits will never save
you from the punchlines
until you name your hopes of sainthood.
they are the lonely haunted wolverines
lurking behind bushes
strewn with blue plastic bags
in the developing countries
you took trains over when you pretended
to be brave and philanthropic
but really scratched the fear of lice
and breathed too shallowly
in the stench of real life uncosmetized.
no one told you being human
smelled so awful and that magazines
were the only reality that could
summon comfortable pity.
now the truth is brushed over,
blushed over, hushed up and sanitized
and you can go back to smartphones
and cocktails like a saviour
in a movie of a movie. congratulations
on your newfound calling
as a fraud.

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