Muck Savage

The minute the fiddler takes to the stage

betwixt the rapper and the organist

I dive out through a slit in the rear of

the reggae tent, meaning to take a slash and chill.

But there’s a rave throbbing in the woods beyond.

Bonfires radiating inside holly, spruce, and ash.

Canvas banners thrashing in the storm.

Chinese lanterns chase across the speckled dusk

like molten bloodhounds packed against the moon.

I’m twisted, I’m a little bit skagged. Can’t recall

who I tagged along to the festival with,

what o’clock or eve it is, precisely    ...

How the trout am I gonna get home?    ...    Did I bring

a tent    ...    Yo! What the sugar’s the hun with

the glow sticks, the yokes, the coloredy fleece

called again?    ...    If you fly with the crows you’ll be shot with

the crows    ...    my Dad said. Could be doing with a suck

on a spliff    ...    a dab    ...    so scanning fore, then midground

for someone to tap, I sketch three paralytics

at a tipped-over shitehouse, legless, clasping

wire fence to hold upright. Never piss on electric wire.

In Tipperary Gah shirts. Tall guys. Hurlers.

Sinewy bastards. Dude in the middle bending

double belching steam and spittle like a hot bog

in Iceland, chucking up loads. Distressed he is.

Heavyweight retching bout. Losing control.

Nearly throwing the towel in, collallapsing.

I see him stretched out to dissolve

in the land and its zillions of ants, trillions

of carcasses. What a banquet he’d make

for the jackdaws. If ya lie down with

the dogs ya’ll rise up with the fleas. Small urge

in me for calling an ambulance. Small

but rapidly growing. ’Til the others start

egging him on. G’wan Jamey! Fucking champion

craic man! Jamey swims with the general will —

hauls himself rigid and warrior-tall,

drawing gallon-swills of boosting oxygen,

then arches crablike at the waist to balance

backwards on his massive palms, stalling

as the constellations eddy, the cosmos rearranges

around him, ’til his whistling tongue-tip

comes aligned with the prong of The Plough

and he launches like Polaris through the murk,

propelling himself straight, hurling bilious floods

of intermingled crackers, croutons, crisps,

sausage rolls, Diarmuid’s Special Offer Salsa Dips,

Guinness, Smirnoff Ice, Devil’s Bit, roasted nuts

and Dubonnet and effervescent codeine foam and fizz

up

up

up

up over the fence

up over the flags

up over the maize

down into the pines

down into the flames

down into the rave.