Alchemisland

Like a grape punnet’s pride of place,

You’re waiting by the bedside.

Can I talk you for a test drive?

Slick roads, little on the wet side.

Dusty bass amp, a full washing hamper,

Walls damp, burning sticks of nag champa

To cover up the stink.

We smoke sticky until it’s silent;

Some smoke until they’re in the asylum.

Spliff longer than a hoplite’s pilum,

Mound in the ashtray where we’ve piled ‘em.