Glastonbury Weekend
Back home in the flat, first meal
alone in six days, and the sausages
catch. Real flames. First the grill
pan, then fast up the walls,
like some illusionist’s skit on TV.
In half a minute the kitchen’s
become a four-walled box
of creeping heat. Hit the floor,
like you’re taught somewhere
along the way. Remember how
the dealers perfected that style
of broadcasting out of the sides
of their mouths, crouched in ditches
between wet marquees. Think back
on the nightly visit to the hash man
in the Jazz Field. Guess
the sausages are past caring.
Smoke doing harsh things however
close the floor becomes. Lie down.
Think of music. Count sheep. Sleep.
Stephen Giles is an exiled Yorkshireman, now living in the east Midlands. He has been published previously in various places, including: Ink, Sweat & Tears, Angle, Prole and Snakeskin. He has won prizes and/or been short/longlisted for a number of awards, including: the Troubadour Prize, Wirral Festival, Ware Festival, Virginia Warbey and the Plough Prize.