Number 8

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.

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