Full Tilt

The gate is chained,
Surreal bright with headlights, one AM.

Misty searches come around the corner
Go slow again
ours
not ours.

Music is
on its way
someone says -
seems distant, having only the digital chirp of phones
which come and go
with no particular rhythm.

The chain broken, going in
before they cruise out of the dark to bust us.
the black ford ripples beneath the van,
dogs hurtle about, wheel-level shadows
but no casualties.

The generator chokes,
makes ready not to work
so the sound of its revving is a beautiful one
but the music won't come.

Charmed put by wire-ripping
and accusations
You fucking do it!
at any rate it's done -
sound
enough to work with.

Four AM, they're still coming
some asleep and won't see much action.
More speakers roll in with the sunlight
and we're on full.

The drivers curled up in their seats
coats over heads and staying straight.

The fire going well now
crowded, heads and dog-heads and lots of tangle
and wood-smoke and hash-smoke
coughs and laughing.

A grey not-ready, never-ready sky
is all we're going to get
but at least it only spits
and tarp over the sound rig will do enough.
Rizlas? Lighter? Baccy?
Yeah, somewhere
I'm from London
You?
Sound. Fair play.

Light begins to make things real
and make faces
sleepers rise, perhaps a bit embarrassed
skin up in cars
because for July it's
Fucking cold.

When you on?
You going on?
Nice one.

No, really, it was good,man -

but next time will be better.