#19 - The Festival Generator

So we slot the handle into the hexagonal socket
and crank it: one revolution,
two revolutions,

and a sour microtonal calliope dirge begins,
like the Emmerdale theme played backwards
through a bullhorn. Flaccid tents
belly out and fill, struts stiffening under canvas;

the stink of beef on hotplates,
the plunging splash of longdrops,
rain.
        Bands come last,

roadies spitting 'two, two,'
into reverb-heavy trumpet mics,
pennants snapping in a westerly wind,
the crunch of beer cans under wellies,

the distant crowds like frogspawn.