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There’s a festival
floating like bubble wrap
on the edge of Wednesday,
and it’s always Wednesday.
Fill up your cup, we’re going in.
Liminal clowns in polyester
traffic
boycott the festival.
Forest fires are jogging up the razor’s edge,
in a crowded teacup
spiked with incinerator bins
and cat’s eyes.
The festival fills
the ozone layer,
plays dice with villagers
under dishcloth skies
signing tartan contracts
like Rottweilers on Special K.
There’s no arcades or goldfish
at the festival
just a lone gunman
eating books by John Grisham, and
sipping propane
with drunken geishas.
Nobody leaves the festival alive —
it’s a nervous breakdown
of agent orange
with pale kings
and final girls.
Dear Editor,
never buy a ticket
or write a lie in your diary —
the elves are revolting
and there’s a hair in their soup.
Find your passport,
it’s painted brown and
lives in a B-Movie horror show.
There’s no parasites at the festival,
just a tombstone in the sun,
lost without Google maps.
Go home and forget the
swimming pools of space
because the Wi-Fi is tongue-tied
and the walls are stained with vertigo.
