The Tiger Unravelled

After the fireworks, the red ghosts
began our parade, horns and hooves
clacking like those of the King of Goats.
Belching fire, they vanished, replaced
by goblins twirling green fish
like scaly balloons above heads.
White gems, deathsparks, flittered
over the crowd, each member praying
they would not look up
to find one hovering, kestrel-esque,
and feel their heart tighten in their chest.
The mermaids, carvings in light,
dove above the streets, swam
through unseen water, called
sweetly to the children
to join them. Violet dolphins
whickered and clicked,
arcing the air. A fanged Fury
burst through their bellies
and snatched strong men, tipping them
into its gullet. Balls of spikes
skimmed toes, rolled
like cruel hedghogs
at the faces of the shy
before shattering into gold dust.
The Bengal tiger bringing up the rear, which only
a second ago had licked its lips
at the ample leg of a wide-eyed minister's wife,
snagged on a stopcock
and unravelled; the black stripes,
like pupils, had been holes all along.
A ginger heap of plush ribbon, sharp fangs
laid neatly beside like a dentist's exemplar,
a squid-shoot of black, a giggle
and the night died young.