Fairground Poem by Jim Young

Fairground



The trilby-man, swinging, one arm braggadocio
on the tryttz sparking, electric pole,
thump-bump directing the petticoat
bumper car rearing raw emotion.
Musk shrieking girls cling together.
The waltzer music booms the spinning neon,
bucking the bowels of the night.
The girls flirt-tease the older boys.

Music sirens up down up, over here, over there,
start-stopping the riders. Next, next!
In deeper, in deeper into the shows.
People in coloured motion, flashing, mirrored,
trying their luck, they lay their money down.
Damn the bloody coconut's stubborn stare.
Dart it, shoot it, whooo o whooo!
Around and around and bumple,
bumple you.

Tuppence in the machine for Woodbines two.
Anonymous tonight, nameless, ageless,
floating incredulous as the cacophony
bubble bursts upon the night.
Zinninging, grinning, delirious,
hot dog onions, smoking hot.
Roll up! Roll up!
All the fun of the fair.

A buffalo ring of blue smoking generators,
snorting, tethered by conger black cables
snaking danger across the mud 'n grass
morass of sinking footfalls numb.

Then we turn away.
Goldfish sad in a plastic bag,
a ready, teddy, go.
The ghosts have inhaled.
The boy's and girl's goodnights
slip through their fingers.
See you tomorrow?
Yeah, OK.

Enshroud the night and
Devil take the hindmost.

Wednesday, August 16, 2017
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