Light spread upon those who retreat to their mists.
Walking through a central London Park,
A festival of some description,
Stalls of foreign food, tie dyed t-shirts,
A small stage emanating something similar to music,
But not quite.
Not my scene, I’m wearing Jack Wills,
Holding a starbucks…
The epitome of capitalist subscribers.
It’s not that kind of celebration.
Hippy springs to mind,
But not the genuine kind,
The self-promoting, radical for the sake of it type.
My well honed skills of the cynic working overtime,
Raising my eyebrow so much I had to switch eyes,
May have pulled a muscle.
But as I kept to my outsider stance,
My condescending middle class stroll,
I strode through a path of words.
Literally.
Hanging pieces of paper, randomly constructed phrases,
Amongst the vegan vendors an avenue of images,
The wind was high so they flapped like the tongues of the pretenders on the stage,
But they actually had something to say.
A strip, of what I discovered was actually hard plastic,
When it hit me in the face, swung from one side.
Grabbing the audacious sheet I flipped it to its speaking side,
And upon it nine words that a poet couldn’t come up with in a week,
Light spread upon those who retreat to their mists.
Nonsense of course, like the rest of it,
But I’m still thinking about it.
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