Friday, 13 July 2012


I can remember where it was exactly
a former field, in a state of a home
off the A12,  twixt Southwold and nowhere
at the end of a tree-lined boulevard
full of brand new wheelie bins
and busy, baked and blustery hi-vis volunteers

I remember who was there the first year
a full set of friends and Patti Smith’s rider
a caravan bulging with flowers and vodka
an angsty Trigger from Dibley droned
whilst DJ78 spun shellac
and we danced & danced, our pleasures abundant
and just the tiniest bit guilty

I remember the air crackle with expectation
as the sun shone in buckets & spades
we all drank bottomless cold lager
and discussed poor Kylie’s cancer
in the shade of a backstage green-room
from dawn until dusk and then way past noon
until the day-glo sheep were safely home

And I don’t remember why, but the rains came the following year
and with them came the profits of doom
there was money to be stolen and the Sky was the limit
executives in Barbour twittering endlessly
their subjects feral punters
trying to escape the deluge,
the fug of burning plastic and the enmity

A dystopian nightmare played out
against a boundless and pregnant
East Anglian sunset
angry mud and fatigue won over
but not a toilet to be seen with
amidst the relentless overwhelming stench
of shite and doughnuts.

And The Levellers.

Can you remember your first time?
I'm glad I can’t forget.

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