Beginning with the sound of failing momentum spinning
The only place to go
With Robert Smith's voice running through my head.
Stepping through invisible
Woven from cloth and elocution...
And most of us, I guess....
Navigate without becoming stuck...
In a web sticky in fear.
It is universal.
Having played to an assorted mob of picnicking -note picnic not panic -families
A line of security guards were ushered into place
To prevent something untoward occurring.
I almost stayed to see what on earth could warrant such a display
I had miles to go
And a hot dinner at the 'Tebay' of the South to catch.
The running list said DJ
Angry, incoherent, shouty and pointing.
Strutting guys who failed
Reminding me of the Stonehenge photo
Almost a month ago now...
Of mutlticoloured plastic tumble weed.
Reports of bad behavior
So many people
The fault-line /Culture war
Between those who believe in the frozen Plan (Gnostics) and those who want to experience...
Demands I take a side.
A cage around the pub....
I tried so hard to imagine what the cage was for
As people slipped in and out of the one gap, under the watchful eye of the police...
What on earth was supposed to happen here
Again the line of security guys.
'Respect for the sacred'
Along with the pious
Who failed to pay enough tax.
On Saturday, 15 November 1539, Richard Whiting now aged 78 years was taken to Glastonbury with two of his monks, John Thorne and Roger James, from a prison in London. There all three were fastened upon hurdles and dragged by horses through the streets, and then to the top of Glastonbury Tor...
And at the top
Richard was hung, drawn and quartered...
The top is a dangerous place.