We sang till the tent collapsed,
A dozen owls joined in
And the storm whistled conclusions,
Neither of us had the strength to complain,
We just punched ourselves to sleep
And dreamt of the concert.
A thousand idiots felt our pain,
Drunken clowns lost on Twitter,
Microcosms expanding,
At one with the raindrops
And we meant even less.
It was better
When all you could smell
Was smoke and spilt beer,
Wet mouths and stale clothes
Alive in the fog,
All we get now
Are a thousand spoilt thoughts,
Your hygiene’s a mess
And your arsehole’s on fire.
From this guttered hallucination
The truth has finally drained,
A snapped cigar,
An empty jar
And a pickled old complaint.
Slacker Shack
Dunstan Carter : Poetry 