Knotted in neon,
their immaculate faces
are illuminated in amber
by the Ferris Wheel,
submerged
by pink Santa candy floss beards.
The Shows are in town,
trumpeting souped-up tango
with jangly indie pop,
thrill rides that do not stop
until fist-cannibalism
and fizzy balloon hearts
become champagne corks
or alcopops
pulsing in scraggy goth chests.
Stilts stem from shadows
wearing dark Doc Martens,
a soiled, scrunched napkin
tossed from a purring dodgem;
half a hot dog,
sawn from scrotum.
Small ghosts flit between rides
like skins of a tantrum,
demon-children
more sugar than bone
and the strongman game
separates the boys from the men,
turns a mallet into bait,
turns a chime into a grail.