Have passed that colossal faux-foliage-giraffe
three... maybe four times,
at least... I think it is the same beast
strewn
with mocking lights,
with glinting, knowing tinsel,
plugged - like Little Jack Horner's plum -
with flashing Rudolf snout.
So many blinking, twinkling, festooning things
were I epileptic,
I would be twitching on the floor.
I feel I am no more
than a card-wielding, cashed-up Algernon*
forced to prove intelligence by swift-squeak-navigation
as slinky dressed assistants squirt perfume
as I pass.

Mind you, place is definitely
still worth a look -
accompanied by experienced guide
toting innocuous iconed stick,
backed by GPS, sturdy boots and backpack well stocked,
Thus provisioned,
a tour takes on the proportions of the Louvre, however,
in a distinctly ad-hoc mode, reminiscent
of the Vatican.
First, the incomparable Pisa stairs
colonnading and corkscrewing, -an unbalanced top,
winding down
centre-feature cascades
with a multitude of plastic Tropicana
driven in like Conway stakes.
Real dried moss completes the magic.

But that's not all...
The escalator leading to third floor
creates a cathedral where
the entrepreneurial and frankly, tragic
capitalises on captive audience -
on way up, was mesmerised by a grinning
forty foot dolphin
on way down, two dune-sized, harem-eyes
hypnotised.
Constellation construction rates a mention -
a galaxy of pixilation fishing-wire-hung.

I am trapped
I know it,
caught in a series of Penrose stairs*,
in Algernon's maze, the mind-altering drugs
(piped music - tra la la) manufacturing
this remarkable vision and if that is the case,
I am doomed to deteriorate,
fade
and finally fail. (No refund, no return).

But that was
bound
to happen, anyway.

*Mouse from the brilliant short story (also made into film) - 'Flowers for Algernon'.