Monday, October 26, 2015

The Carnival: 4 Rides



1. The Tilt-a-Whirl

She locks her eyes on a single objective.

                                                                    Minnesota grown, tiny globes in

chaotic orbits, forces: centrifugal, gravitational.

               Under the diamond plates and rickety

beams, magnetic eyes pierce her stoned gaze.

                                                        Cool grass absorbs the summer sweat,

insinuations are made with cotton

     candy lips, kissed, licked, then

lean to the left,

she can guess the weight of his stare,

     lean to the right,               

                                           he can draw her character in unflattering detail.

  Spinning under the stars, every focal point found is snatched relentlessly.

 





2. The Gravitron

With every turn, her foundation weakens. The stab of inertia presses guts
and guilt against a fleshy fence. The calm, happy middle, laughs. The

boom of jealousy penetrates her skull, watching through the dim as
lips lock in the safety of the center. Pushed and pulped, forced

to see, wishes she could melt, seep through the wall. 
Schools her eyes closed. Face flat, heart in throat,

stomach in chest, sliding up and down without a
strand or hand to grasp, without an argument

of fairness to stand on, only her every
selfish moment broadcasted in stereo.

Every departure and deception,
a catalog of injuries imposed,

perhaps without intention,
but undeniably without

consideration.

 



3. The Zipper

Shift the weight when pulled over the top.  Emotional 

           whiplash, a cable in the core

she purrs like a red hot engine revving

             to the top of the hill, then he

                                                      throws

         her

                                                                                                                                                           off.

The Zipper moves down,

teeth part, flip her, 180, 360… 

                          …420. She is there, blushing, squealing, with her name

         being replaced, at a time when everything was that easily

replaced.  An Ace slips through her fingers, but she

stays there with an emptied cigar, with too much cleavage,

                                   watching white powder lines disappear in hasty,

greedy sniffs, in the glue of July.

The zipper moves up, teeth clench, toss her at seven

RPMs around an oblong boom, as the fireworks start.

Metal mesh, if that cage opens, they’ll really see her bleed.

The jockeys catcall the marks, step right up.

Scarlet lips unlock and laugh. The Zipper moves up and down.

The Devil’s Ferris Wheel.

 



4. The Kamikaze

Gondola

pendant on a suicide

arm, a promise to be slain costs

six tickets if you’re a boy, and so much more

if you’re a girl. Her last letter said, he’s taken me to his bed.

Ride the pendulum, side to side, to delight or demise, or submit to the pit.

His hands are in my hair, my maudlin heart is caged, and the music

here is so loud, no one can hear me scream. All change

fell from my pockets when he flipped me over.

This shoulder harness is on too tight,

but he said it’s the safest way

to hold me

down.

 

 

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