The Cart Rutters of Malta
Cart Rutters of Malta,
Dancing on Terra Firma, Ages of Man, sun beat, layers of tan. Neolithic marches, across arid Land. You still stand, your history unfolds, Your limestone skin I touch - it’s not cold.
I stroke you once more, I lean against you, I hope it isn’t too much. But I sense your archaic being will cope with my state, upright and tight. The joggers pants now absorb the drench of sweat, as we dance and stumble in and out of you unaware its getting so late. Lifting the sunrise across the span of your shoulders heading to the edge of our destiny, we find inner strength from your ancient roots, a cry of excitement - we are free.
Cart Rutters of Malta, Dance your rituals old. Take a cap - man - block that blinding sun. Just be bold. That night of groove, sweating, stretching, kicking to the sounds. Arms up in the air, we pray to raving, its long hot summer, stripped down till we are finally bare.
Cart Rutters of Malta, I’ll not forget you, I’ve got memories of all night sway, brushing against each other we moved and did not stray… We grab some selfies, I deleted the last one, man I looked a mess with all kinds of stains on my joggers, pulling off my vest. Someone puked, did you not see? A bile from a body that gyrated unable to rest. Someone shouted ‘HOLD ME, HOLD ME’, the sound going deeper, pulling at our souls. I refuse to let go, for no one has any control. We’re in the moment now, taking us higher and higher - Jack, Jack, Jack your body. This place an exploding energy, but watch your feet man avoid the quagmire, its getting messy, water flowing, stumbling over the ruts… Bodies riving to the throbbing pulse of you, on and on, our skin is tingling, our core vibrating, yet still we pull through… There’s a hundred of us now - who invited them, I’ll never know. But still committed and entwined, we keep going for these nights they rarely repeat - of joy, happening, and united belief.
Rave on rave on, to such sweet, sweet rhythms we dare,
Call out as we take megalithic jumps, its a frenzy, but then who’s going to care? Is this, was this our youth Cart Rutters? In my hopeful dreams.
Cart Rutters of Malta, You are languid now, horizontal in the midday sun, last nights intemperance dries across your rugged base. You’re not alone, Man, what did I swallow? For sprawled across your soil, murmurs are scattered and displaced, There are lines etched over your brow, ‘Cart Rut,’ I’ll call it, for this is your fate as you slowly roll over to face the beat, the beat of the intense sun, reflecting on that night of eternal fun.
Cart Rutters of Malta, Hold my Hand, tell me your future will prevail, modern life wants to crush you, destroy you, pretend you didn’t exist, or make up stories of how you came about, and that eventually you’ll be dismissed. But I want a new generation to feel you, experience you, take your journey too. Be you on that rising cliff, boldly being, hitting direct sunlight, fighting the continual fragmentation, and see you present all night.
Cart Rutters of Malta, I’m leaving now, brightly coloured evidence strewn across your back. But others will come soon, in joggers, caps and sweats too and move to your groove, listen out for your past and make it new.
Lisa Penny 2018