It’s the wildest Hippie fest I’ve never seen or been to daisy-chain-child
galore dry ground beneath bare feet psychedelic dyes on big cotton sheets are
the staple contents of the big coloured tents that are up all over the site and
stay on the ground like lazy kites too lazy to expand into the crackling black
of the neon night here at Glastonbury; I lie in the sunset picking berries from
a bag for life that was filled to the brim by the Fruit Troops supercharged on
MD and flower power they decided to shower us with healthy snacks in all of their
wealthiest colours: techni colour rains of red and blue and black and green and
yellow thud around us into the lime green of the grass and the golden brown of
the camp grounds; we’re mellow never dropped into a good trip when it wasn’t
night out before my hands are turning into cat paws and I’m batting around a
ball of apple come yarn strung loose the fraying strings sing about things that
I can scarcely decode and there’s a maroon toad where my mobile used to be ribitting
rings rippling towards me at warped speeds; the seeds from my tangerine are
little men who leaned on their sides one day and can’t remember how to rise
they have no eyes and no mouths and no lips and no hips just arms and legs and
stories that erupt into orchestral snoring because they get bored of telling
them half way through; the chorus of snores and the flailing strings spilling
new age lore are failing to feel me with dread I just let them unfurl around
the curls of my eggshell claws as I shred the ball to threads the day starts to
come through as the woollen apple thins gin’s going around and is going down my
throat I take a toke of something good that a man who swears blind he’s a
hermit crab offered me (he’s a PCP freak my newly engaged mate with the pierced
ears opening into black holes filled with bright white light tells me) his
tent’s bold and red and fused to his waist with duct tape that looks like a
jagged band of solder.
Jagger’s playing loud and proud as ever writhing between the
strings of the freshly baked night set to simmer the crowd showing no signs of
thinning just flowing and going and going out and out from the front of the
stage shouting raging waving caving in at sections like a fumbling scrum all
their fingers toes and thumbs missing prints all their faces whitewashed of
expression in the neon tint the crowd of everyone rushing forwards the people
gushing towards the frontman but the bouncers bear the brunt and the rouge
stunt comes to nothing more than a stage full of punts to the teeth and fists
to the face and the crowd of everyone races on in pulsing waves slaves to the
beat feet to temple but despite the chaos their movements feel so gentle from
back here tears of joy rolling down my reddened cheeks and still the strings and
the hermit man speak and I’ve become weakened by the wonder that surrounds.
The Hermit man started to look older and kept getting older
and lower as the day turned to dark in the flowing glows of the headline act his
crab claw hands that had their youth intact only hours ago withering into tired
clumps of shell at the end of scrawny arms that used to swell with muscle; he’s
been coming to the hustle and bustle of the festival since he was eighteen and
although he’s been haggard by the fun he’s had he’s not mad at all he’s smiling
his incomplete smile that’s met crystals of meth and sheets of worn concrete
many a time for either crimes or for existing depending on how much of the fact
is in his blistering barrage of exploits and carnage that conjure echoes of
Thompson’s coverage of the Nixon campaign and it’s hard to take the strain of
the Hornby train that’s now a viper fixed on tracks threading itself around my
head and neck my paws are still taking the ball apart it’s down to the raw of
the core now it’s all pinky and pulpy like pot noodle porridge mixed with
synthetic yarn drooling clear tar that feels like toe jam as it slams in wads
and clumps with feathered thumps onto my face chunks and chunks that I can’t
even see and can scarcely feel are more real than the steel of the stage or the
sage wisdom of the Hermit man part crab part man part can who’s going to go
back to driving his (repeatedly) keyed white van come Monday it’s Sunday but I
want to stay I want to get baked on cooling brownies cooked on gleaming golden
trays I don’t want to deal with anything except this malaise of mixed mirages and
the great sounds that used to only greet the walls of suburban garages but that
are now hitting the stage with a passion and a rage and an energy that rips
through me repeatedly riff by riff drop by drop until everything’s gone even my
name: I’ll be Mr Smith member of the crowd of everyone, no forename to frame my
face or my life Mr Smith free of the strife of my inner city job and the
well-dressed mobs rutting in packs like mutts in their lifts and trains I want
to hang on here in this farcical plain where I’m not maimed by the claws of
reality but my mind is already starting to take me from the tame of my trance
and I’m starting to see the people that I thought were so pretty dancing for
what they are and what they were and what they may always be acne scarred teens
hopped up on Mandy stirring in circles like teaspoons in old cups of tea left
on the side too long gone cold getting old and stale turning pale in the grey
display of sunrise the colour in their cheeks was only there by the grace of
the neon and the strobes and the face paint and pretty soon we’re all going to
leave to be tainted by the stains of suburbia and city and countryside but I
don’t feel as sad as I might, this people’s palace found under the Pharaoh’s
steeple will be here next year for us to all come to hide and vibe in again and
I will drop under the small top of my lazy kite again and I will be free to see
the world through my intoxicated psychedelic sights. For the right price of
course.
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