and , too , a carnival of death , a grassy park near the city center , a merry-go-round that turns unceasing hour by hour , its old-time calliope breathing out dented and rusty notes while the slugs pull their own arms out of the sockets trying to climb aboard the moving platform , some disembodied limbs dragging in the dirt around and around , hands still gripping the metal poles-and the ones who succeed and climb aboard , mounting to the top of the wooden horses , joining with the endless motion of the machine , dazed to imbecility by gut memories of speed and human ingenuity .