WOT IS IT?

some sort of crumbly brown rock/you all discuss what it is/leb or blonde or slate or rocky/does it fluff up or crumble/all hard to get now they grow skunk up tower blocks/don’t need to process it at all-

the

oily sticky smell reminds

me

of

burnt melted fingernails in brown half moons you trim and chew

and

hot clipper ridges of solid skin in both thumbs/best use a candle/no one ever got one

and

90s campsites burnt wood/pretty faces lit by nature/drop a blim but somehow someone can just SEE IT clearly even against the night brown soil of not-blim stones

and

backgardens round old white plastic furniture/its freezing/papers get wet in fat rain drops

and

garage forecourts/stand there in the weeds looking at the windows to see if someone can see

and

third hand ford hatchbacks with bongs made out of coke bottles/radio on/parked behind a school when a rockstar died

and

the rizla rolling roadshow in brighton after morning mescal that was hilarious when i had no skins

and

outside by phone boxes on childrens corners and in strangers bedrooms/everyone sits on the bed/always waiting always the waiting/the endless waiting for ringing phones/torn foil holds small brown triangles/right money folded right

and

high fear paranoia in day light city centres and TV you cant believe and racing games you cant play

and

the hilarious street sign telling me where i am/wooden bus stops where we all loose our fags

and

army surplus smells of wet dog in spring college rain and climbing winter trees with own brand booze in green tins

and

not being able to climb down/when you do how scary a close horse is

and

all the hundred stars between the glowing clouds on the  school field/broke in sat in old maths chair from years before

and

hanging out a sunroof yelling at the thrill of summer night of some girls car/she’ll never give me a lift again

and

every taxi is a police car and all the footpaths between A roads and all night garages are marched/sparks coming off our heels/laughing wanting food

and

rolling up on country styles under creepy churches and in grey metal street corner transformers/danger of death somehow funny then

and

all the hot rocks bouncing/and all the 

t-shirts and hoodies with worn hot rock holes like thin nets

and

all the tent zips zipping and all the travel tired clothes

and

the lingering stink of spilt cider/sodden walking boot socks

all this is singing to me

from

fumes

of a hot glass rock.