i saw seven
bronzed, winged women,
clad in blood-red
feathers of velveteen gold,
skipping in the spectral fire.
the ferris wheel's festive garlands
danced to and fro above the flaming fete,
sprinkling ashes like neon confetti
upon the gluttonous dying below,
burying them in their smoldering lust.
when the final struggling juggler
collapsed at last in smoking attire
a cry of dismay erupted from the crowd
and bitterly they cursed the corpses
for the carnival must go on.
