The Fairground of Hell

The Fairground Of Hell

Ukrainian peoples art unfolds in memoirs.

Through histories gates.

Sadly, we unveil another turning point

As time whistles us a dark reminder.

Of, what seems only a few hundred steps away.

World War one, two, now three.

Count our toes while painting our walls.

Spill out pain in artistic kisses.

Art puts us under it’s spell.

Times tunes of painful memories leaving lasting scars.

Blindly hoping we’re on the right road

We’re all dancing within a delusion.

Imagining we’d all be able to sleep in peace.

Ballerinas shoes.

Rolled up neat,

underneath our pyjamas.

Close by our cold toes

numb from pain.

Crippling our legs until the next run.

From the next bomb.

Dreams of horror are now not only dreams.

Staring us in the face.

Along comes another tyrannical rollercoaster.

The fairground of hell.

Don’t buy a ticket unless you want a death ride.

As, we’re all living in hell already.

The priests here must lend us a ear my dears.

Not to whisper our sins in neither.

Stale popcorn

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Only salty black burnt numbers

Throw a dart at the prize board

Hit target

Your prize is a dead teddy bear

He’s not even pink

He’s got burnt paws from firing guns.

Hit a jackpot

You’ll get stale brown candy floss, if you’re lucky.

Our stomachs flat, we’re all getting skinnier and skinner.

Soon we’ll be skin and bones.

They’ve added so much tax to buy food.

The big bald fat men ruling our land

They eat at Claridges for lunch.

It’s a posh hotel in London Town

For those who never ate five star

You’ll find it in the Michelins bar menu.

Discussing our tax whilst crunching living oysters.

All the while our Ukrainian fellows are on front line

Fighting for time.

When is the next fairground ride?

Beware of the clown

( poets note ) The above section won gold in a all poetry contest.

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( Second stanza written on Mother’s Day 2022 )

The Clown is spying on you from behind the curtain.

You stare at a hotdog stand

The hotdogs are living slugs not sausages

They tried to fool you.

There’s no ketchup only blood in the bottle

You’re so hungry you’re blinded by stomach knots.

A man wearing a cloak and a bowler hat is turning a wheel by the horse carousel.

Which horse will you choose ?

It’s a death ride to doom.

Don’t pick a horse with the bomb in its golden mane.

A crawling man screams for assistance he needs a hand up from the ground where your feet stink.

You forgot about the holes in your shoes.

Hurry or the crawling man might eat your toes.

The sound of music from the carousel keeps your mind moving in time with the dancing horses.

You lift the screaming man on the ground to his feet. Then you carry him over to one horse who looks a safe bet. There’s always a chance of a each way bet.

Horses who dance stand more of a chance then taking a bullet cos they break a leg.

Breaking legs we're all familiar with. Actors do it every night.

How the flipping heck would you get inside another humans skin ?

Add a bottle of rum. Bring on the pirates.

You think for one moment the slave trade is dead ?

There’s enough women cleaning their masters shoes on this planet to make the evening news sell out.

Behind the bandstand is a smoking toad with a big long nose. Beware of the clown. He’s his check-mate.

They’re surmising the best way to skin you alive.

Welcome to ‘The Fairground Of Life’

Good luck on surviving.

Yvette Louise Melech

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