"funfair" poems
they lived
like the only customers at a funfair;
weeks caroselling
with swollen rise and fall,
like the horses forgot
to gallop in circles.
they had their own world
of haunted houses
and helter-skelters
but the stalls were all out
of candyfloss
and, as they slotted coins
into cork-rifles,
they shot themselves
to pieces
without winning
a single prize.
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 3:22 PM UTC
I wear stupid glasses unlike her
Teardrops are my own makeup
Looking at you is my dose
I just wanna be with you so close
I wear oversize shirts incomparable to her
She wears tight jeans and lovely corsets
I walk through the dirtiest streets at night
She sways and enjoys her princess life at bright
I roll over my untidiest bed
She amazes everyone with her lips at red
I glaze the road with my unfixed hair
She roams the cities and turns it to a funfair
I could not do all of that
I could not even give you what you want
This feeling is only what I got
I said it through this poem 'coz I can't be blunt
I am afraid to tell you everything
You are my best friend and you are my everything
Why are you so numb of what I am feeling?
Is it because I am not what you are dreaming?
If only I could be that girl
But I can not.
Because I just wanted to be me
The girl who slowly kills herself
The girl who keeps on pretending
That she loves seeing you happy with that luckiest girl
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 4:05 AM UTC
Music is in the air at the gleaming funfair,
With the moon and sun there celebrating cheery.
There are millions of streams under the signs of gleams,
Following the night's dreams with curiosity.
Shining are the bright lights, throughout the depths of nights,
Offering many sights as a sweet luxury.
They are shooting like stars, the luxuriant cars,
Along the shiny bars and each murky alley.
Now it's time of the dawn; off are lights of neon,
Lets celebrate Gihon, instead of poetry!
Jan 1, 2017
Jan 1, 2017 at 5:47 AM UTC
The stars they soar
As your smile it shoots through my veins
Demolishing the remains
Of previous trespassers
And the imprints they left.
You brush away soiled footprints
With one swift kiss
Placed delicately on my lips
And in an instance,
I am cherry cola bottles,
Cotton candy, funfair rides
Without a care in the world
I am racing down slides
With you i am ebbing with the tides,
Not against.
I am nights on the town,
A princess with a crown,
A smile, not a frown,
I don't drown today
All because you say
You love me.
I am floating
Floating high, high as a kite
I am amongst the stars and beyond
There is no need for a magic wand
To make my dreams come true
They are all embedded in you.
Chemistry pulsates between us
Two women from Venus.
The looks we exchange put to shame
Any love sonnet or story
You call my name
And angels sing
The joy you bring
Unexplainable.
With you I am strong
There is no matter of right or wrong
With you I belong
I am the most beautifully
Constructed piece of literature, song.
With you I am alive,
And living
This love your giving
Oh this love your giving
Could feed thousands.
With you I am complete
And there is no need to compete
For satisfaction
Because with you I am always satisfied
With you I am ebbing with the tide
Not against it.
You are the fight I swore I had ran out of
Months ago
You are the sheer beauty, purity and excitement
Of glistening snow
And I know wherever I go
You will follow.
You are the gentle breeze
The moments I seize
With both hands
And tie tightly to my heart
Every day is a fresh start.
You don't weigh me down,
You lift me up,
With you I stand on mountains
I drink from fountains
I laugh and smile
And for awhile
I am me,
The me I always sought to be.
And though the sands of time
Sift peacefully between us
Your grasp it tightens
There is no need to be frightened.
There is a reason for everything
You are,
My reason for existing,
A ring, a promise.
Safe and sound,
Til the ground parts us.
We shall be partners.
In crime, worlds at a time
We dance, our romance
Something that could never be crammed into words
Or wrapped up in poetry
For we,
You and me.
Are infinite, eternal.
And what we share
Indescribable.
You will always be my first and final
Love.
Love, love, love
I love you.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 6:06 AM UTC
What would it be like,
When people like us gather,
On a frivolous journey for the nether
with a crew of cuckoos;
Like a family headed for the gutters,
humour abundant.
What do we have to lose,
In a world full of *****
And time to lose.
Day and night,
Lightweights and spread legs,
A love fest and a funfair.
Stomachs full,
Heart merry.
An euphoria of heightened souls.
What would it be like,
When people like us gather,
Tired of the same,
Aimless and shamed.
Days run tame,
Nights run old.
What would it be like,
When people like us gather,
Purpose in mind,
a book in hand.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 5:19 AM UTC
I guess it was the acid
Frying your brain
You thought you'd just try it
For the thrill, start to drill
In my membrane
I must admit, I starved for it
But alas you pass on by
Leaving only footprints behind
And though I've always known
When rolling dices made of stone
To count those blessings I'll always have
So losing ain't that bad
And on this cycle goes
Keep racing on this very road
In search of ways to fill a hole
The bottomless pit of my soul
Beware this trickster, out to bewitch
She crawls into your bed and it makes you itch
Dim-lit may be my lanterns
Imagination figments
Accompany, me in my sleep
Willing suspension of disbelief
I had it coming
My snow blankets are melting
Your garden's disappointing
As are you Sir Dementor
I see now you're grey and decayed
Not worth a single cent paid
Fungi verses my bouquet
In Some Unholy War
I guess it was the acid
Frying your brain
You thought you'd just try it
For the thrill, start to drill
In my membrane
I must admit, I starved for it
But alas you pass on by
Leaving only footprints behind
And though I've always known
When rolling dices made of stone
To count those blessings I'll always have
So losing ain't that bad
And on this cycle goes
Keep racing on this very road
In search of ways to fill a hole
The bottomless pit of my soul
Well yes I know of the animal
In me a smothering towel
Bursting at the seam with fever
For an artist unobserved
A false representation
I guess a mirror reflection
Of funfair loving children
Now in my veins desire
Is spreading like wildfire
But we're dead in the water
All life left on shore
Warnings so deafening
Have broken all of our strings
Shelter from electrocuting
Of Some Unholy War
I guess it was the acid
Frying your brain
You thought you'd just try it
For the thrill, start to drill
In my membrane
I must admit, I starved for it
But alas you pass on by
Leaving only footprints behind
And though I've always known
When rolling dices made of stone
To count those blessings I'll always have
So losing ain't that bad
And on this cycle goes
Keep racing on this very road
In search of ways to fill a hole
The bottomless pit of my soul
A. G. R
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 5:59 PM UTC
beauty roused the world from slumber
took it by the hand and danced it to freedom
on a merry go round and funfair full of-
candy and apples- the laughter of forgiven children
can now be heard throughout all creation
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 11:18 AM UTC
I used to stand, dreaming
I could win that brown bear
Only takes three darts, top scores
To win, at the local fair.
Or a fish, I would have liked that
An orange thing in a plastic bag
Or hook-a-duck, a chance to win
Perhaps a new toy or wave a flag.
The smell of onions frying all day
Hot crispy potato skins enticing
The unmistakable aroma of doughnuts
With different kinds of icing.
The thrill and fear of the ghost train
With dangly things in your face
Screams, sighs, a creepy hand touching
I loved that very creepy place.
The helter skelter, skimming on a mat
Winding to the bottom with a smile
Then queuing for ages once again
Strangers in a single file.
The fair, money for this and that
Oh I wanted that teddy bear.
Eventually I got him, my new friend
Sitting there with his short brown hair.
A reminder of days when fun was fun
Screeches, screams and music very loud
They’d play the number one in the charts
To a very approving fun loving crowd.
So with my short lived fish in a bag
My bear and tummy full of candy floss
My pockets with no money just tissues
Smeared with onions and tomato sauce.
I’d head back home, looking over my shoulder
The lights, the atmosphere nothing can compare
Dodgems, rides that made you feel sick
But that’s ok at the local funfair.
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 1:13 AM UTC
Its indeed a correct mistake that a dot of white is a stain on our black
Its inventions, a womb that born all Evils
Its promises, the word a Saint despises
Its stupid dreams, a count of Sahara shii
Its a correct mistake their tongue we ever bought
For the womb that made us we offered in penny
Our pride we cut so short
Their pranks scored us much better than Balloteli
Its a correct mistake we believe we were slaves
To be enslaved into their gravy cell that we then called a palace
We chased what's left to us as honour into. the cafe
Only to bath in their **** we called a grace
Its a correct mistake we ever shifted an inch
As it now turns a cell that imprisons our eggs, our fathers, our gods.
We took the bait to be toured for in a pinch
Turning our shrines a funfair that gets us bored
Its a correct mistake that our right made us wrong
We fell for the weak we believed would make us strong
A fallacy of conception that God is actually a white
Logically thinking its a plight to make our future bright
Its indeed a correct mistake
That Adam actually got fooled by a hole for a bite of cake
Esau gave out a divine right
Just to make the worms in the stomach feel alright.
Its a correct mistake they came through the sea from the west
Its much crazy we still drink from the well that put our ratio of intelligence to test.
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 9:57 AM UTC
Take me to the land of crystal rivers,
that glitter like a mirror for the gods.
Take me to the height for altruistic lords,
revered by the oppressed for being givers.
I dream of a world drowned in abundance
of joy infinite at its renaissance.
Where the warm rays of the tropical sun
soothe the pains of a bleeding wound by day.
Where nature entertains with so much fun,
like a funfair in the sweet month of may.
I smell the pleasant scent of flowers gay
pervading the plains of awe and wonder.
Where colourful fruits in season render
sweetness and nourishment at my behest.
Where the sun's showers of warmth dry each tear,
bringing to extinction, a world of fear
in this magnificent haven of rest.
I see a paradise for virgins fair,
devoid of blemish with their silky hair.
I see breath taking mountains clad in green,
where romantic love birds would find serene.
I see this world of beauty at its peak,
which all dreamers would relentlessly seek,
coming closer now to my possession
than any dream or imagination.
Apr 2, 2021
Apr 2, 2021 at 12:17 PM UTC
*oi! Bronson! **** ya matey! i'm a sardine oiled up! that paddy is gonna hang like a dog on a serpentine of a leash's worth of walkies... that paddy's gonna hang and ask for the relay gun at the Olympics going off... paddy was never the bricklayer... paddy always gangrene flex, got lucky in Arizona and New York, forked St. Petersburg and only forked a steak nibble... Bronson settled into retirement just fine, came out a ******* act-tor! pepper the bobby with parking meter fines for his bureaucratic funfair study... sooner or later Jimmy the literate will turn up, and replace Bob the illiterate swine cuffing someone ******* in an alley.*
oh, i'd probably become
an english teacher
and sing fuck-yeah
when the drone army of
Amazon couriers fed us
the next 21 hour trip in
defence against the Koran...
so i guess ha ha is in order.
and with every mythical Mrs.,
you tell 'em about the castration
in the synagogue, and never about the
baritone in the morgue.
Aug 3, 2016
Aug 3, 2016 at 12:12 AM UTC
I used to stand, dreaming
I could win that brown bear
Only takes three darts, top scores
To win, at the local fair.
Or a fish, I would have liked that
An orange thing in a plastic bag
Or hook-a-duck, a chance to win
Perhaps a new toy or wave a flag.
The smell of onions frying all day
Hot crispy potato skins enticing
The unmistakable aroma of doughnuts
With different kinds of icing.
The thrill and fear of the ghost train
With dangly things in your face
Screams, sighs, a creepy hand touching
I loved that very creepy place.
The helter skelter, skimming on a mat
Winding to the bottom with a smile
Then queuing for ages once again
Strangers in a single file.
The fair, money for this and that
Oh I wanted that teddy bear.
Eventually I got him, my new friend
Sitting there with his short brown hair.
A reminder of days when fun was fun
Screeches, screams and music very loud
They’d play the number one in the charts
To a very approving fun loving crowd.
So with my short lived fish in a bag
My bear and tummy full of candy floss
My pockets with no money just tissues
Smeared with onions and tomato sauce.
I’d head back home, looking over my shoulder
The lights, the atmosphere nothing can compare
Dodgems, rides that made you feel sick
But that’s ok at the local funfair
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 8:13 AM UTC
*i never write poetry for a prize...
i write poetry for the next poem,
as in life... good or bad.*
i'm writing about a suicide,
a top chef kind, chef
benoît violer.... committed suicide,
there were awards, there
where the paparazzi,
but when reading the article
i was sitting at the other dinner table,
i read the article taking a ****
and i thought: god it feels good,
taking a **** giving birth to something
so worthwhile disposing off...
god i love taking a ****
ought i hash-tag that?
these nights when my boss gives me
no thought juggle and knot into writing
i take the easiest route: what's great about my life?
the same **** that everyone does but isn't clued in...
the pleasure of excavating a ****
will hardly match up with archaeology...
but still... taking a ****
does all the bollocks' funfair injustice
when it's dangling like a slur
before it plops into the stinking pond...
taking a **** never felt better...
it's the little or the belittling that counts...
never write poetry for a trophy or a prize of some sort...
the essence of poetry will die otherwise...
you'll get what you want, sure...
but poetry will turn around and bitch-slap you
back into your place when you don't write
for the next poem... i.e. 7 children, 28 grand-children...
or a homophilic chinese uno, with a surrogate mother,
5 poems that make up the helium of an ego
ballooned to excess with others laughing.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 6:26 PM UTC
Fanfares at the funfair for the children we took there and candy floss crème for the time in-between the dodgems and ducks.
Steinbeck played halfback on the quarterdeck of a cruiser,
not an enviable position, but they enhanced his pay and with two rations of *** every day he didn't really care.
Time jumps about when you're about to get down to the real business of living
I'm about to do that but I can't find the time.
Wild in our childhood we are savaged by our adulthood
what chance to have peace?
there is none.
It's a fashion to be
or it could be it was
I get lost in minutiae
and tend to shy away,
but only
because the side track is
my best side and my best side
is the side track
I'm on.
and anyone can learn how to drive.
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 11:50 AM UTC
I used to stand, dreaming
I could win that brown bear
Only takes three darts, top scores
To win, at the local fair.
Or a fish, I would have liked that
An orange thing in a plastic bag
Or hook-a-duck, a chance to win
Perhaps a new toy or wave a flag.
The smell of onions frying all day
Hot crispy potato skins enticing
The unmistakable aroma of doughnuts
With different kinds of icing.
The thrill and fear of the ghost train
With dangley things in your face
Screams, sighs, a creepy hand touching
I loved that very creepy place.
The helter skelter, skimming on a mat
Winding to the bottom with a smile
Then queuing for ages once again
Strangers in a single file.
The fair, money for this and that
Oh I wanted that teddy bear.
Eventually I got him, my new friend
Sitting there with his short brown hair.
A reminder of days when fun was fun
Screeches, screams and music very loud
They’d play the number one in the charts
To a very approving fun loving crowd.
So with my short lived fish in a bag
My bear and tummy full of candy floss
My pockets with no money just tissues
Smeared with onions and tomato sauce.
I’d head back home, looking over my shoulder
The lights, the atmosphere nothing can compare
Dodgems, rides that made you feel sick
But that’s okay at the local funfair.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 12:12 PM UTC
I was sitting
on the concrete stairs
of the flats where I lived
in Banks House
when Enid's old man
walked up
I was *********
cigarette cards
of racing drivers
he paused at the lower step
and said
where's Enid?
she was in her flat
a while ago
I said
I asked her
if she wanted to go out
but she said
she had to wait
to ask you
so I thought I'd wait
until you came home
he looked at me
his eyes tired
where are you going?
he said
East Street market
I said
I want to buy a fish tank
for fish I won
at the funfair
the other night
he looked at me
why'd you need her
to go with you?
he said moodily
give her a bus ride
and see the market traders
plying their trade
I said
I'll see how
she's behaved first
he said
if she's misbehaved
I'll slap her backside
and no mistake
and she'll not go
I studied him
wondering if he
was back to his old ways
the Mr Nice Guy
mask slipping
ok
I said
I'll wait here
he walked past me
saying no other words
his footsteps heavy
on the concrete stairs
I wondered if she'd
be out and about
or if her old man
would find some excuse
to slap her one
and be as it was before
him being a pain
in the ****
maybe less
maybe more
Enid never showed
so I went off
to the market
to buy a fish tank
from a stall on my own
hearing in my inner ear
Enid's sad moan.
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 1:50 AM UTC
Fear
So complete and so overwhelming;
Nothing else can be felt.
The room that surrounds me is too small
The white washed walls closing in
It is a cave from which I cannot see the mouth.
The darkness is engulfing me fast
The light is disappearing fast
It is a whirlwind of shadows and fading voices
The reality is blurring, in its place
A distorted nightmare stitches itself
Like black, thick treacle it slowly slides into my ear drum
A wild hyena laugh
It’s here.
The air is painfully thin.
Every withering gasp becomes shallower
My lungs are shrinking
They are red balloons
Punctured by sharp, shining needles
Deflating, they push out the oxygen
Drawing in the black charcoal
My chest feels so heavy
The smoke suddenly solidifying
I can’t breathe.
I am trapped.
Isolated and alone
My body a steel prison
I lie helplessly on its foreign, metallic floor
The cold cuts into me
My bones freezing over slowly,
I can’t move.
The ice is a barrier between me and the outside
Carving the figures into unfamiliar shapes
I do not know this place
I am a child lost in a funfair.
The world clumsily stumbles in front of me
A million joyous colours and noises bleeding together
Forming one screaming siren
It yells “PANIC, PANIC, PANIC”
A rhythmic repeating chant
Blaring and bright
I’m drowning in its wails.
My body jitters like an old wood coaster
Jerking, swaying under a heavy weight
I try to stop it but it is out of my control now
The cart has left the station
The hyena laugh again trickles into my ears
Growing louder and louder
It morphs into a crazed clowns cackle
Howling at my failed attempts
My palms start to shake,
They cling to my arms as I rock back and forth
Trying desperately to make it stop
Why won’t it stop?
Why won’t it end?
My heart starts to speed
Beating so fast, it hammers against my glass ribs
It is deafening.
Like footsteps pounding the pavement
Running crazily to try escape
Terrified of the monster cowering over its shoulder
Painted face, disguised, its screeches surround me.
I trip and fall, knees grazing and legs shaking
I cry like a little girl to her mother
“Make it stop”, I whimper.
The monster towers over me.
From aside me, an arm leans into my cave.
It whips off the monsters mask.
Nothing is there.
Mar 3, 2018
Mar 3, 2018 at 7:50 AM UTC
Today I met a jet boat named Desire
Killing time on the docks, crimson like cherry wine
It's been telling me of the corrupted youth
That nothing has ever been the same
Since they tore down the funfair park
Where we made a pilgrimage each night
To bury our most desperate loves
Now we all have a lover waiting at the bar
They steal kisses from strangers for fun
But Desire says he's been dismissive lately
Of sand devils and kindred spirits
Says there is no illness as stubborn
as the pursuit of company
Aug 28, 2024
Aug 28, 2024 at 7:10 AM UTC
The funfair on Sunday
and who's going to pay?
Her ex beaus post photos
I don't think that's fair,
and she in a state of undress
couldn't care less.
He's not an angel
unless it's a fallen one
another memory wipe
swipe your card
falling's not hard
it's the climbing back
and I've climbed up mountains
swam oceans
drank potions, but the
fountain of youth never
gave me the truth,
old, be it
magic or not
I did the lot.
so
who's for the ghost train?
I want to see what the
butler never saw.
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 3:55 AM UTC
First day on the job, an apprentice with no clue
Put with some old boy, Norman Collins his name
been plumbing everywhere, from Watford to Timbuktu
Picked me up in his Vauxhall Belmont, a fading sun caught red
telling me tales of his dinner, roadkill on the hob
His wife cooked him these meals, I think he must be mad
Driving out in the sticks, a job for a pal, over near the village of Sarrett
A blob in the road, dead pigeon or badger, well he's not eating that
would have been different if it were something else he said, as he actually fancied a bit of rabbit
I didn't realise what a good bloke he was until a few days with this old codger
My main boss was a grumpy sod, never paid me till he had some
Looking back now, I miss that man, who told me tales of old times and tomfoolery
I used to be a wrestler young John, back in the days of the local funfair
Took on any Herbert who thought he was keen, and showed them the tent exit
From **** McManus to Jackie Pallo, bring them on son, I didn't really care
He locked me in a toilet one day, inside somebody’s house
Let me out I cried, for a good 4 hours, he ignored my every shout
For he couldn’t care less and that’s what I miss, a soul who just larked about
For they seem dead in this day and age where everything is done by the book
Don’t upset the man over there, do you know who he is, he’s the King and you’re just a Rook
As they don’t seem to exist anymore, these men who walk on Gods seven sins
Have a laugh, have joke, as life’s too short
I miss old Norman Collins
JJB
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 3:58 PM UTC
if you can talk the hind leg off a donkey
what do you get?
a three-legged donkey
which could be a winner in a
three-legged race.
Writer's cramp
I said,
writer's cramp!
probably the damp
getting into my bones
and yet here I am
a modern man in an
antique situation,
life's no funfair which
is really unfair
or not fair
when life gets there
without me.
May 13, 2021
May 13, 2021 at 12:40 PM UTC