A spell: I conjure droplets of mud In the collective ear canals Of those who bop to Bassey just so they can tell mum that Glasto wasn't all pills, glow-sticks and so-so nut burgers.
It is my birthday. I am cushioned by French teenagers Rifling playing cards. It is my birthday. I know my dad will buy me chick lit And I will have to smile. It is my birthday.
I see you careening Yellow eyed, lost and Vague through fields Studded with road racers, Neon moustaches And half delivered falafels. One-eyed witches proferring
The 'Garment Doctor' fails to spark a smile and my spleen tantrums in sloe berry explosions, popping as each departure is called. A sign for 'Emotional Engineering' is not meant for me,
4pm is the hour When babies Start rotating Like Strimmer blades When lilac OAPS pull Their support tights Over their Elnetted Heads and Spit dentured phlegm In your eye. When