Flicking through LP liner notes on a beanbag chair, pushing back thick vines of grease-plaited hair
Imagines his drafted friends laughing, thinking him daft and soft, no chance he’d have survived there.
His headphones are like a chopper pilot’s, two leather danishes bunning his face
His hands, fortunately bloodless as Pilate’s, tap the record’s sleeve in good pace
In a good headspace he reclines, his headback meets the crown of his spine
His greyhaze eyes decline reading along with songs his fingers trace the lines
The man is a lizard king can do anything even he thinks people are strange
While some boys hold up Do Lung bridge, some boys must tend the range
Some will stoke, keep home fires burning, while others must go insane
In films Creedence wail about not staying still
Men made into mincemeat on Hamburger Hill
Imagines football team mates, friends, foes, rivals and fateful finders upon arrival there
The pile of rifles proffered beside a pyramid of mottled helmets, the righteous swear over cocking pieces that their aims will be true.
Alchemisland 
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