Wednesday, 21 July 2010
Gala Day
The gala stank of suncream and sweat, sawdust and hot rubber. On the hook-a-duck stall, the goldfish boiled in their bags. With my lips sugar-crusted from hot doughnuts I haemorrhaged pounds at the tombola stalls, trying my luck for degraded bears and Elizabeth Arden talc as children wove around my feet like cats, jacked-up on candyfloss and dangerous with the heat. They queued up for the rickety rides, pawing and squalling in their little England kits, clambering into carriages shaped like helicopters with tigers' mouths and shit-brown, leering carp. The Gala Queen was a pity vote and the clowns unsavoury. It was the best of days.
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ReplyDeleteI love you.
ReplyDeleteclowns = horror post.
ReplyDeletePerfectly Posset. That last line just is you, speechless I am.
ReplyDeletePOEM.
The gala stank of suncream and sweat,
sawdust and hot rubber.
On the hook-a-duck stall, the goldfish
boiled in their bags.
With my lips sugar-crusted from hot
doughnuts I haemorrhaged pounds
at the tombola stalls, trying my luck
for degraded bears
and Elizabeth Arden talc as
children wove around my feet like cats, jacked-up on candyfloss
dangerous with the heat.
They queued up for the rickety rides,
pawing and squalling in their little England kits, clambering into carriages
shaped like helicopters with tigers'
mouths and shit-brown, leering carp.
The Gala Queen was a pity vote
and the clowns unsavoury.
It was the best of days.
(submit to journal) Haha, couldn't help myself, sorry.
There needs to be carnivals every day, just in case I need to have a miserable good time.
ReplyDelete