Noisy neighbours

I liked the look of Shangri-La
on telly last night,
recruitment consultants
dressed up as fun-fair freaks,
black sheep aristocrats
following their dream to be blend in,
a celebration of who we are
or not,
daring, outlandish, energetic,
Mad Max for the weekend.

It’s a dripping psychedelic
installation of the apocalypse
to encourage us
to live for today
and accept our dismal future,
but I couldn’t help thinking
Quadrephenia, cattle,
commuter trains and hangovers.

Naughty me,
I played with the idea I could go down
and do some acid
without drinking,
like in the old days,
but then I fast-forwarded
to someone offering me a beer
and how I might not know what
the bloody thing was,
only realising what I’d done
when it was too late,
horrified in mid-swig,
and a bad trip assured.

I did a Google search for Glastonbury 2012,
nonetheless.

‘Cancelled due to lack of portaloos
and police’.

Relief.

Thank goodness for MacDonalds,
And arses on seats
at London’s fateful Olympics,
although I know very well
there are plenty more festies this summer.

Next door to Shangri-La,
the flowery folk people were appalled
by their noisy neighbours.

Content with acoustic guitars,
hot pools,
tacked plywood shacks
dressed as confessionals
of an ecological nature,
Morris dancers
and washing-up bubble-blowing,
I thought of Hemel Hempstead,
of privet hedges and picket fences,
of whispers and unkindness.

Had they even left home,
and why weren’t they in Mid Wales
or the Dordogne?

The programmers were quick
to return to the freaks
where the money was,
but not before a short interview with Eavis.

A woman had telephoned him,
distraught by the noise.

‘I have children, you know,’
and so he asked how old they were.
‘Eight and eleven,’ she replied.
‘They’ll be here
in five years’ time.’

She hung up.

A hundred yards away
from my bedroom window,
a magpie sits on a rusty aeriel
at the peak of a chimney
on a semi-detached house,
lifting her bottom
from time to time.

Her partner plays it cool
on a mossy tiling slab
and then flies up to mount her,
fluttering his wings for entry.

For fifteen seconds,
he flutters for balance
five more times
and one for ejaculation,
then he flies off.

I felt sorry for the female
but only for an instant,
(rabbits are in and out
quicker than you can say
fuck my old boots)
and when she flies off with him
to the cover of a tree,
I realise that it’s the small things
that make my heart sing.