Camptown Races.

[Jerrybaldy]

The carousel is curving the light of painted bulbs
in an accelerating spin as children scream
clinging to golden mares as the organ
plays the Camptown Races. Doo-da.
Dead Dad walks through a hot plate onion steam
with burgers for me and him.
A hymen tears on the starlit grass
behind the candyfloss stand
where sugar is magically spun.
Dad is singing. Doo-da. Doo-da..
Ketchup dripping from held out hands.
Brylcream reflecting the dizzy lights of the carousel.
Metallic sparks litter lovers on bumper cars.
Blood drips from thighs to flattened grass.
Popcorn waits in toffee.
Dad holds my face tight
squeezing my cheeks between teeth.
He doesn't know he is dead.
Doo-da, Doo-da.
Children fly from the carousel
like dolls you win on the coconut shy.
Ketchup drips to my t shirt neck.
Big wheel brushes the sky.

[Haunted]

I love this poem. Don't know what else to say…

[Delta40]

Wow Jerry. Wish I could pen a dead dad poem like this one. Must be the X factor...

[Jerrybaldy]

Dead Dad and fairgrounds are a recurring theme for me, Delta. I dream constantly of people who are still alive only in my dreams and I feel it best not to tell them they are dead. A travelling fair is so evocative, so full of every sensory delight and nightmare that I could write of nothing else.

[Jerrybaldy]

I can't write anything new but think this is the only thing I have written worth reading in months. Taa daaaa.

[Delta40]

Are you in that space again?