Glastosphere

Old friends meet loudly, hug and call each other “man”

their heads on other days would turn to Tim or James or Dan

Suburbanites who freely mix with New Age scruffs

safe in the folds of music, smoke, real ale and stuff.

On their acre’s nest of tiny multi-colour nylon domes,

these torch-lit tics smell of sweat and spunk and pheromones

dressed in tie-dyed, damp, old outrageous threads

until Monday comes, the suit, the tie, the tube, the talking heads.

In feathered drizzle, stretching last nights’ stiff necks legs and backs

strolling aimlessly with skinny dogs who sniff for discarded burger scraps

before the music calls, the thudding bass, the squealing riffs, the angry drawl

as Eloi turn and amble toward the hypnotic churning call.

Demure young girls then sensually writhe and show their tits

and hope they won’t appear on someone’s Facebook pics

henge-like some stare, some sway, some jig, some surf and fall

it’s Glastosphere, you have to be here, come one come all.

Published by grahamrsherwood