The Clockwork Orange
Packed in. Standing room only.
Surrounded by people, half of them lonely.
Standing together, ignoring each other
For fifteen minutes, encased in thunder.
And into the dim rollercoaster we go,
Shooting through the dark circle, writhing to and fro.
The Clockwork Orange* rushes through
To another station and another slew
of people who rotate on and off this dull ferris wheel,
coloured in Strathclyde PTE Red, these garish tubes of steel.
I catch a flash out the corner of my eye,
of tourists taking photos (much to my surprise).
The announcer announces “Next stop St George’s Cross”,
Where a Subcrawl climbs on with sobriety at a loss
And takes a seat next to me, illuminating this carnival ride.
N.B. I’ve never actually heard anyone call it that.