All these fucking powders
And condiments –
What’s the fucking point.
Shovelling this measly shit up my nostrils
Scrabbling around for a high.
I miss the days when I would hoof
A nice, clean line of coca
Up my virgin nostrils
Or take that first, raw, ragged toke of bud
And let my spirit soar
Into a velvet cosmos
Delving deep into the nature of a thing
Or pricking fingers on the points of stars.
Instead I ride the dull and dusty bus back home
Past abandoned garages and schools I used to know,
Yearning for a place to call my own.