Alchemisland

Use used be nightly

Like the donning of a nightie

The kicking off of street-scummed Nikes

The removal of contacts from an eye

What it saw? Ask George Bataille

The reed, the leaf, the weed used make me feel nice

Sure, the anxiety was crippling but the flow state was mighty

Now I must drink mingin’ spicy tea to sleep

And suffer the revenge of all my stoppered dreams

Pursued across a scorched Elysium by teams of seething demons

It feels so real but the cough moved me near

Enough to the grave that my near and dears

Were worried, my wife walked in in tears

At long last, my paltry allotment of mercy leaves arrears

I’ve left behind a fine weed smoking career

I had smoke coming out from more than my ears, for years

I basically lived ten years with one day on repeat

Ganjhuff Day, whether skies were bright or grey

I would wake and bake and say it was a good day today

Of course, now that my life is surrounded by Garda tape

I can see I was self raping; that it was all a waste

But at least this library of sordid poems offer a taste

A sort of drug-induced stone tape

All the best or worst of it can be replayed

Let the acid, unplacid homilies of my bong-addled mind be relayed

Do what you need to do, chew on a grenade

But you have to manage your space

You have to be able to take

What you mound on your plate

All that matters is being safe, I pray

The end of a ten year day

During which my brain was daily tased

A month off and most of my knowledge still feels erased

My mind is an unfamiliar place

No such thing as a safe space

Cotton wool balls stuffed inside my well-fucked brain

I had to train myself away from buying zig-zag papers

A life lived on willed delay

Now feels like driving ’98

Down a country lane

Or like how coming back from outer space

Must feel to its patrons

I’m no less a poet or a pagan

Having ceased my heinous drug taking

And maybe this is laid out too naked

But I also received thanks from my anus

The watery shits I took each day were famous

Put that in the annals, it’s no faking

I had lungs black as a tray for baking.