Ian Bowen


Clarence The Artist

Each rain soaked cobblestone reflected a midnight moon
as total darkness hid between the close, claustrophobic walls of alleyways.
A single stage rattled to a stop.
The smokey breath of stallions, cut through the evening chill,
twirling upwards like some forest fire.
A bag, full of different shaped knives were lifted from inside the carriage,
wrapped in the leather of the bovine dead.

He walked tall in his high hat, cape dragging the ground,

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