FOALS:
Out deep in the crowd, hands in the air, mouthing silent
in tongues talking to spirit guides. Instagram clusters
upload gurns, caught in the brutal flash of branded phones.
The rhythm of bodies writhe in joy, crowds part for bearded
boys pushing foaming beers sheathed in plastic. Empty paper
cups flung into the light above our heads, disappear into
the canaille. The earth spits at the sky.
Wild energy, abandoned to the beat, pinned to the stage
with light. Hair and sweat, and corkscrew limbs unleashed
and unreserved describe fabulous arcs from left to right
and back and back and back. Nothing conforming, following
unfettered threads, colliding incandescence. The funk,
the cycling looped guitars, Afrobeat and Rave.
Everything sounds like home, we catch each other’s eye
in glancing smiles, fuelled in the presence of passion.
Then we all met in the bar for hugs and laughs.
Took the long walk out the back between the salt of the earth.
Truck drivers and hi-vz security greeting, waving us goodnight,
point the way home. Turned on the radio, flipped on the lights,
tuned into to late night Bob. Tinariwen and John Lee Hooker,
the desert and the delta blues and whispering Bob to under score
safe passage back to Essex.
(K)
Karl Hyde 