spit on the loser who plays prima donna,

and the audience they

see every act, fall, feign hurt, surprise

tumbling along – wrapped in chocolate

topped with beethoven making one last sonata

this time in the sun.

wait prima donna?

the spit quickly turns to a gesture of apology,

a kindly smile, genuine connection flushing through

those soul like eyes – didn’t mean to, my bad

a grumpy man all dressed up makes a half bow,

i must have mistook you for someone else!

but the audience they are not fooled,

tears glistening on his cheek, tries to hug the loser

who is trying to beckon away, befuddled, going towards

panic – i think the spit was better,

for he can see his sorry ass state, down trodden, a little heavy

in places here and there, stinking like rotten eggs, or kim chi breath,

yuks. no it is more, his whole life, washed away, always aspiring, always

down the gutter. always the same old excuses.

the haughty man who pretends not to be haughty

smiles benignly, i love you.

the sun began to set, beethoven skips, mozart plays

allegretto and the damsels they enter the scene,

flourishing a down trodden stinker with roses, hibiscus,

drink some honey will ya?

maybe, maybe not mused the now calm prima donna

who is sitting wearing colored clothing made up of various

flowers beaming at the sky.

hey what’s up? called the sky to the man looking up,

just musing while

a brown noser tries to bury his nose deeper into the dirt,

hey i too am a stinker he cried

out to the damsels who had all decided to leave

at the same time. sorry sir, no more flowers!

and he spat rudely, pah, and here i am, just like

the dreamer talking to the sky,

whose long arms stretched and from an armpit rained

down toads and frogs, only on one now drenched

man no longer eager to make small chats.

damn, damn, damn it all

he cried.

don’t i get to be primo donna?