world poetry day 2016

we were stood where petrol station forecourts go to die,
Jason and his rocket arm too,
kicking rubble into rubble fires,
mumbling, Turin couldn't crack it either, over the silly things,
yoga mat rolled back up ripples bleeding from mouths, exorcising chuckles every so often,
putting out the wound of brief recalled playtimes below,
and all of them, there,
in the haze of Nevada or where ever,
Peckham, perhaps,
amounting to nothing more than the tips they had once collected,
standing 10 meters away from the fireworks instead of the intended 25 the packaging recommended.

Some danced, really lost themselves in it,
some sat, really lost themselves in it,
but most sang a song in their head,
withholding calls, withheld their caller ids,
catastrophizing every syllable until the score became unreadable.