Dying to feel fuck all, get a buzz on at all times
Bristling at cold whistling Spandau’s Gold at the bus stop, Ormeau Road
With my hand out like a cordial offer to a former foe
Passed the old graveyard, whistled Hymn to Pan, accidentally invoked
Chaos I couldn’t control in my left hand
Tossed the end of the last blunt you rolled into the pan
Of a black Panda full of bin bags
Dead and diseased
Eyes wormeaten yet freer than me
Freezing, 7 feels 3 C, 2026CE
AD taken to mean always demeaning.
Alchemisland 
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