Couples Dance
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Hot grass flattened from a couple’s embrace clingy they fit like serrated pieces of broken smuggled-in Havana Club that the earth has swallowed and caked the sides of a mirror image one half of a heart they gulp and swig at each other’s tongues drown in sticky saliva with none of the impending anxiety yet about who will slaughter who or be the hungrier scoffing at the intestine trails reams rolled up detailing visions documenting aspirations kept close inside so perfectly predictable for two souls in their infancy but believed to be so utterly unique crowbarred with importance inside their world a place where the fantasy grows weeds they roll hard in rose tinted buds inside a constant hazy state of stoned in-love to a dialogue from the main stage that could be any kind of soundtrack because they lost their tent three days ago and who needs things stuff that climbs onto shoulders sits in skulls they are so light they could evaporate become the same as the air that carries their paper lantern up this is all they need each other’s shelter food life source everything sounds like Marvin Gaye when it rains it’s filmic the mud isn’t treacle except in its taste they share a cider from a chewed-on paper cup and chatter like gibbering sunshine budgies in the same yellow mac
Natalie deliberately moves away with a casual care that isn’t needed it will never be noticed and she scans for a patch of ground a piece of earth populated by single souls or group activity but it’s Noah’s Ark everybody has a mate an extra limb hanging off the side the iceberg’s hit fifty percent underwater or more and she is aware she’s finger smudging a record rotating she needs to change the track because everyone has this down already recited to the bar but she can’t see anything else as she spies him licking vanilla from a wafer held by a lycra legging-ed spidery limbed beast with a happy gap an ass that if you kick it wouldn’t even shake but she can twerk under the wavy hair of some darling spread-eagled across his torso or clutching his beer while he pisses against a tree not romantic but to her it looks like tracing poetry with urine Shakespeare’s design in territorial lines to the sweetheart with a sword and even though her conscious intellect tells her that’s fucked up she wishes she was owned again to have the jealous scent marked across her because it’s every couple of meters inevitable and a thing repeated to see him everywhere sprawled in front of every stage leant against every flag pole tracing the edges of her site this festival ground
*Image @charliefrancis.me