Clarence The Artist Poem by Ian Bowen

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,
sucking moisture like a bloody bandage.

Death had come to visit in internecine slices.
Soon the white chapel walls would be splattered in the gore
of ripped wombs and breasts.

Bemused and baffled, the law was helpless
as those at the top, endeavored to help the weakness of a royal prince.