This Rave in France

As I write it is still raging and will until Tuesday,
or until the police decide they too will nap in cars,
put on their jester caps and take the djs out back.

My tut is my mum's and I thank her
for setting the delay 20 years,
my forehead will set,
if I don't stop looking up at the neighbours' gutter,
wondering when it will get us all killed.

The elastic's out on my leggings,
when will they fall down,
and why would I come through Dover,
now of all times, sleep in my car Thursday through Tuesday,
and come back arteries clogged 
with dry ice,
noodle grease and Lambert tar.

I miss what I didn't even want,
and what you think it is I know that
I don't even want but
I miss so much more how my memory slips,
the ghost in the machine, and when I hesitate.

The true value is in being unable to 
instantiate, it
means you know I can't ever go back and
mark the golden moment,
you know I,
I miss missing 
and so you push me so.