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carousel

hungover and heavy with jetlag,

sandbags bound round your limbs.

leaning on the cart as the bags

hit the carousel, land akimbo,

then right themselves like

drunken hen night gals

falling off high heels

and prissily adjusting

themselves upright.

you feel you’re on another planet

where sounds come muffled in cotton wool

and you move in leaden slow motion,

suppressing a rising panic while

sucked forever backwards

as if sinking in quicksand

in some old 70s show.

 

Photo from The Telegraph

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