Dank thick perspiration
drapes over our oily nervous skin
like freshly salted slugs...
No breeze
the air is hot and still..

We carve up limes with a kitchen knife
as the other commuters look nervous.
We lick salt and do shots of tequila,
the butterflies in our stomachs do back flips
as we hurtle along in a tin tube
following the ancient British mainline

The English weather has for once done us proud. This bank holiday weekend will be a story to tell our grandchildren.....If we survive.

The festival ground is dry and parched.
Discarded drug packets and canisters of hippy crack are the red carpet for our well worn comfy dancing shoes. We do not don our Sunday best for we know better... the routine that lies ahead for our pilgrims feet is forlorn.

"You! Yes you!! Step out of line!
Your dark shades don't fool me or the dog.
I can see through them, the light of lies is too strong to protect me from your bullshark irises.
Admit your guilt!
Confess and handover your stash and your sins will be absolved..."

"But officer...I'm not religious"

"Follow me like the sheep that your are,
a spring lamb to the slaughter!
Hands out in front, clapsed tightly together!
A full cavity search awaits...
We'll leave no orifice un-probed!"

Sounds like a date... but it was all such a waste.
This carp was catch and release.
Returned to the dust bowl and the rhythmic beats.
The weird naked indian guided my way through the hot sweltering day.

All that effort expended and my taste is more acoustic, but I still lost and gained more the drug festival that played music
Written by Syd (False Sense)
Author's Note
Just a true story
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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