I brushed my hair to the left, and looked into the carousel eyes.
The aqueous humour thrumming with outdated soundtracks
And the hair blown around by rust bucket rides
And Mattel personalities coupled with Neo Wiccan
Beliefs in third wave entitlement and THC domineering
Commentary. I listened to endless bullshit radiating through the year
From spinning carnival mechanics and rigged games.
Winning cupie compliments and oversized order bills.
Half-assed witchcraft resounding from a fucking Black Hawk planting
The seeds that would bear the bitter fruits of bumper car hatred and
Petting zoo liaisons. If we still had a connection of which to speak then I
Would say with no hesitation that you wasted my popcorn and Skittles
And Monday Mischief. Sharing beds with those bearing choke marks
From uterul necklaces cinched too tight. Extinguishing pyromaniacal fantasies
Under the thin veil of “just getting along” and the mask of “can’t the past be the past.”
Apathy. Pacifism. Perpetual. Routine. Placebo. Bandage. Costume. Circular.
Are these the words of momentum and climax?
The only momentum to be seen is those on fair rides that spin in endless tornados.
Is it any wonder that we look at each other clouded with motion sickness?
Our vomit is our late-night conversations. Our nausea is our appearance.
One woman’s peace is another man’s war, and her cast is his burden.
Her sling is his ball and chain, her medicine is his impetus to rage.
Fuck your hill. There was nothing at the crest.
Fuck your past for not having a future.
Fuck your present for being wrapped incorrectly.
Fuck the falsity of shape.
Fuck you for allowing it to look human.
You should’ve stayed in North Fuck.