Where
the Stoners go
I’ve
done it before. Now
crashed
out on the hell of a sofa
overdosed
on ganja, beer and unhelpful vodka,
I
can see my resolutions clear
as
spillage on a Rizla. From here
I
can see my way: Across the carnage of the carpet,
slip
past the emergency bottle of water,
dodge
through that thick strangulation of wires
ensnaring
the stereo, skip round the dead body
stashed
well under the window and hurl
the
head forward in the door’s direction. Buddy
you
can make it - if you can only get a fix on us
and
on our plan of action. I have done it before.
And
so I told myself again: never mix business
with
the bold patterned laziness of stoned, aged men.
Still
I struggle to leave them, paled, hammered,
innocent
as snakes basking in time-honoured bounty.
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