Fairground

The world is spinning around me on this ghastly carousel. A flashing light circulates nearby, trailing the circumference of my limited vision. The night is blurred, imperceptibly, and even if you wait, daylight never comes. It is the place where time ceases to make sense, where there is pointless, rote repetition of the restricted repertoire you possess as part of your meaningless endeavours. Death. Think about it all the time. Sweet and black, thick and potent: like coffee. Trickle down your throat. A drop of nervous sweat down your temple. Gulp and see the way your Adam's apple bobs, up and down like a float stranded in the middle of the sea. The sea, the sea is the sky and the sky is the sea because both are grey with no clouds. Endless horizon; and no dawn.

Sit here on this carousel with me and watch the world go by. You can take the unicorn, if you like. Mine has a broken horn; and shredded wings. Torn from the back, like the way Satan's fingers dug into the recesses of my spine, between the shoulder blades. Scratching; clawing; gauging. Flesh from my back. Blood and death; like coffee. Switch the button on, let the carousel dance too, so now even we are moving against the world as it zooms past in the opposite direction.

You are only a figure, not a companion, as you sit there on your gleaming white unicorn. Feeling the wind beneath its fur and feathers, it is starting to become alive, a hoof poised, ready to take flight. And me, slumped back downwards, forwards, every which way like a pathetic rubber glove. Stretched and insipid. Fill me with water so I bloat and then burst me so I cry.

Look, look, I see you are going to fly. This carousel is spinning with me on it and goodbye, you're gone, you've left, but oh who will sit with me now -