Almost in Newport

Half-dead, sprawling on this jolting train bearing me ever westward toward Wales, my mind, spitting out its shoddy fairground movie in protest at the acrid rancid garbage smell that seeps back from the direction of the toilet at the end of the otherwise empty carriage in front of me.

Up all night at the fairground that stinks headily of candyfloss and burnt popcorn, the merry-go-rounds whine like asthmatic old whores on their last legs, and the painted ponies and unicorns: – fixed on their iron poles go nowhere slowly while drunks lurch along the booths taking pot-shots at coconuts.

The ghost train groans, the balloons pop like gunshots, the plastic fortune teller laughs mechanically and unseeingly as if he knows. And that little girl’s radio, that tinny little box down the aisle, plays that accordion tune, sweet and sickly and cloying as only the carnival in the brain can be.

I imagine the accordion player dabbing perspiration from his velvet waistcoat and cocking his waxed-moustache face beneath a tilted topper while his monkey scoots through the crowd, stealing wallets and wieners and squealing like a dirty story.

The ride has at least two more stops before Newport, where I hope the noise in my head will shut up for five bloody minutes.

pounding skull dawn breaks
whiskey ghosts howl in my veins
coffee, black salvation