That poem that I half-wrote at Glastonbury.
It’s as close to finished as it’s ever been and, although there are still a few clangers in there that need ironing, I’m pretty proud of it to be honest. Poetry doesn’t come naturally to me at all, what with rhyme and meter getting in the way of what I want to say more often than not, but here you go.
A Poem That Doesn’t Yet Have A Name.
You suggest we open the cider
On the National Express.
I silently agree, red wine
Still lingering on my breath.
It’s not raining in this daydream
(It isn’t even breezy)
But if it was, my hair
Wouldn’t dare go frizzy,
And you’d tuck me into
Your brand new poncho.
Conjoined bat twins
Sponsored by Uniqlo.
You carry the tent like a cameraman
And we do the journey in stages,
Laughing at all the indie girls,
Their sideways hair and pink suitcases.
We pretend we haven’t noticed
The babies dressed as Cinderella,
Being pushed in a wheelbarrow
And twirling pink feathers,
But we know we’re both thinking
CUTEST THING EVER.
We pitch the tent like pros
But the cider’s crushed our eggs
And while I blow up the lilo
You make gags about oral sex.
With different coloured pens
We mark our choices in the programme,
You show concern about our future
When I call Julian Cope a madman.
On Sunday you want to see Cohen
But I quite fancy The Earlies,
You win,
Based on tour schedules
And probable life expectancies.
At night we wonder if Kings Of Leon
Will be as good as at the Apollo
And talk about Steve and Molly
Who will arrive tomorrow.
Steve will bring a range of knives,
With which to slaughter his tea.
Molly will bring a stupid pink suitcase,
And worry about going for a wee.
As we snuggle down to sleep
We don’t feel especially guilty
About drinking three quarters
Of the cider already.
Today it’s The Raconteurs,
But no other concrete plans,
And Jack White has turned himself
Into Edward Scissorhands.
Mate,
You can’t tune a Les Paul
With velvet and kohl
But the darker your glare,
The more rock’n’roll.
When we feel like a burger,
We order kangaroo meat.
Steve thinks that Ray Mears
Would consider us cheats.
At sundown we buy drugs
And we dance,sweat and bond,
Decide that of minimal techno
We are really rather fond.
We lose Steve and Molly
And a fair portion of brain
But we buy a nice blanket
Which feels like a fair exchange.
We doze by a fire
With a juggler called Tiger,
Talk about our lives
And drink someone else’s lager.
I notice you have begun to confide
In a wind-up mobile charger.
In the morning, you’re up early
Albeit without one of your shoes.
You make us tea on the camping stove
That I swore we would never use.
Throwing me an orange,
You call me your “favourite panda”
Because yesterday’s make-up
Had thoughtlessly wandered.
Joanna Newsom takes second place
To your sexy two-day stubble
And the camping stove is left, unloved
While we enjoy special morning cuddles.
Molly and Steve were up hours ago
Enjoying the friendly disorder.
Molly has bought a pink tutu
Steve, a vintage deerstalker.
Sherlock Holmes piss-taking
Replaces any mention of Mears
Steve says he’ll give Cohen a miss
I say that’s “an elementary idea”.
On our way to free bean stew
From the Hare Krishna kids,
The cash machine queue stretches
Right past herbal highs and trips,
And we conclude our speedy service
Indicates changing demographics.
We tear our greasy poppadoms
Enjoy the chanting’s big finale
“Six out of ten” you say, since
“It doesn’t progress much lyrically”.
In the poetry tent,
I put my head on your knee
While a man reads a poem
About Stuart Maconie.
The sun turns the sky pink,
We become shadow puppets,
And in the dusty rays,
There’s that one from The Pipettes.
Lenny plays ‘Hallelujah’
And you remember your brother,
How tears pricked his eyes
Hearing Jeff Buckley’s cover.
We stand back and slowdance
As the night gets colder
You don’t even mind when I
Spill cider on your shoulder.
Later, we apologise
For calling Steve Sherlock Holmes.
We all share the last Pot Noodle,
Watch the fireworks explode.
I help Molly fold her tutu
As our energies dwindle.
A boy lies on his pop-up tent
As if it was an escaped criminal.
When our friends go to bed
You hold my hand and we walk,
Watch the lights from the hill
And drink a hip flask of port.
I don’t want to leave, so you say
“I’ll build us a house right near the Tor
We can both get jobs
On the kangaroo stall.”
©Megan Vaughan, 2008
