Train to Newport

I sit here half-dead on this rattling train to Wales, and my mind starts cranking out its cheap carnival movie, clear as the sour smell drifting from the toilet in the empty carriage ahead.

there I was.

cotton candy in the air, popcorn grease, the merry-go-round wheezing like an old whore on her last trick. painted ponies and unicorns bolted to their iron pole, going nowhere forever while drunk bastards hurl balls at coconuts, they’ll never win.

I slide in and out of sleep, the train clacking like loose teeth, and some little girl’s tiny radio down the aisle keeps playing that accordion tune — sweet, sickening, straight out of the fairground. I can damn near feel the sweat on the accordion player’s velvet vest, see the waxed moustache, the top hat tipped at a wise-guy angle, his monkey scampering between legs, picking pockets and stealing hot dogs just for the hell of it, chattering like a dirty joke nobody gets anymore.

and it doesn’t stop.

the ghost train groaning, balloons popping like gunshots, and that plastic Zoltar laughing his mechanical laugh behind scratched Perspex, big eyes staring like he knows I’ve been broken forever.

 two stops to Newport,
the fairground won’t leave my skull—
no quiet for sale.