Monday 19 September 2011

WOT IS IT?


some sort of crumbly brown rock/you all discuss what it is/leb or blonde or slate or rocky/does it fluff up or crumble/all hard to get now they grow skunk up tower blocks/don’t need to process it at all-
the
oily sticky smell reminds
me
of
burnt melted fingernails in brown half moons you trim and chew
and
hot clipper ridges of solid skin in both thumbs/best use a candle/no one ever got one
and
90s campsites burnt wood/pretty faces lit by nature/drop a blim but somehow someone can just SEE IT clearly even against the night brown soil of not-blim stones
and
backgardens round old white plastic furniture/its freezing/papers get wet in fat rain drops
and
garage forecourts/stand there in the weeds looking at the windows to see if someone can see
and
third hand ford hatchbacks with bongs made out of coke bottles/radio on/parked behind a school when a rockstar died
and
the rizla rolling roadshow in brighton after morning mescal that was hilarious when i had no skins
and
outside by phone boxes on childrens corners and in strangers bedrooms/everyone sits on the bed/always waiting always the waiting/the endless waiting for ringing phones/torn foil holds small brown triangles/right money folded right
and
high fear paranoia in day light city centres and TV you cant believe and racing games you cant play
and
the hilarious street sign telling me where i am/wooden bus stops where we all loose our fags
and
army surplus smells of wet dog in spring college rain and climbing winter trees with own brand booze in green tins
and
not being able to climb down/when you do how scary a close horse is
and
all the hundred stars between the glowing clouds on the  school field/broke in sat in old maths chair from years before
and
hanging out a sunroof yelling at the thrill of summer night of some girls car/she’ll never give me a lift again
and
every taxi is a police car and all the footpaths between A roads and all night garages are marched/sparks coming off our heels/laughing wanting food
and
rolling up on country styles under creepy churches and in grey metal street corner transformers/danger of death somehow funny then
and
all the hot rocks bouncing/and all the 
t-shirts and hoodies with worn hot rock holes like thin nets
and
all the tent zips zipping and all the travel tired clothes
and
the lingering stink of spilt cider/sodden walking boot socks
all this is singing to me
from
fumes
of a hot glass rock.

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