The Magic Man/Brixton to Rome - JLG Clift

It’s the weeks end and Pussy’s the trend the Magic Man’s surfing tonight as he dips his hands into his Northface Parker and check’s his stash is right in the place where he left it suburban shaman Sherpa nurturing the local stars driving their mopeds with their girls riding bitch kidding themselves that they’re turning heads like their idols in flash sports cars ‘it’s fucking bizarre that morons exist today what with evolution and all’ the Magic Man thinks as he trades a baggie for a twenty in a swift hi five at another North Finchley dive of a house party thrown by a mousy girl looking to make friends the dealer used to deal to make ends meet but now he trades because he likes breaking the law and the rep he’s gotten on the street as the Magic Man who can get you anything you want if the price is right.

‘he’ll get you something that’ll make you taste moonlight’

‘he’ll bake you something that’ll get you hearing sight’

The Magic Man’s tight with everyone constant greetings from fans of the show who he sells blow among other things to as he huffs a Camel out of his lungs out front and into the atmosphere punters who couldn’t even pull the munters making their way home alone from the pub across the street the pavement peeling and eating their feet and their arms like fruit as they fall to the ground and become drunken speed bumps humping the concrete in an attempt to clamber to their feet again.

“what time is it?”

Back in the garden the Magic Man can hear a fight brewing and he can hear the crowds jeering insults ripple into the world to fuck his vibe the Magic Man’s dosed on tabs and he sees the battle as a tribe initiation the two boys wankered strutting in circles like they’ve got fucking constipation in their neon tracks the one with his cap thrown back strikes the black boy out into the grass before stumbling to his drunken arse howling about the way he fell and something fucking smells right now on the porch.

“Allow, did you shit yourself man?”

“I may have done”

Everyone proceeds to laugh out loud how can this fucker be proud? Because he’s pissed and popular and regardless of his actions there’ll always be something of an attraction about him Ferris Bueller syndrome the Magic Man’s bored of the party and gets the train down to Brixton to Rome the streets and make some cash there’s been a crash and everything’s quiet no one’s out the dark streets breaking in the summer drought blinking in parts as neon billboards turn on and off flickering in electrical limbo for hours on end there’s a gang banger bleeding flowers onto the back street that the Magic Man steps through a single red petal tearing into teal as it parts under his shoe and down the way there’s a tramp playing a crackling chord sequence on a broken acoustic sitting in the wrecks of his camp winding in the wind to the music flick knife flicking up the fret board in his hand leaking blood from the punk the Magic Man stepped over not fifty metres ago

“he broke my tent so I split his gut”

It’s a lawless place and in the ruins of the tent he can see leaches thriving underneath a soiled bedspread Union Jack colours run to black and grey but the red remains raw in the writhing of the parasites that live to suck the day away into the night.

‘who put them there?’

 The chorus continues to play the tramp’s singing is ringing in the Magic Man’s uninspired mind that seems to bind together in the withering feathers of a sky high lifestyle but also with a strange sense of dread and in the distance two youths make off with a pair of turn styles breaking glass rattling down the road after them echoes of their lives future and past the sound of breaking glass will last forever in Brixton the Magic Man’s life is being held together by the tired rope of the poorly strung ricocheting riff singing about hope and freedom and ideas that don’t exist anymore pissed out of his haggard head the Magic Man’s feet are lead on his legs anchoring him down to deal as the whores from the tenements begin so surround asking what he’s got to give they’re clothes are tatters and their faces are bruised and knackered leaking oil onto their used foil frames glinting with grease and their children paw for a meal at their knees but none of that matters to them he allows them to buy and they scuttle like rutting rats through their chipped doors and the Magic Man can feel the heat from their spoons sting his skin as the whores curl up once again on the floor safe within the darkness of their score and a girl watching on some steps in a soiled sun dress rallies the other children up sick of drug money going to the Magic Man instead of to the store to buy food and as the Magic Man starts to move back to the station the tramp finally rolls over to rest in the filth of the nation’s repugnant pride lingering and the girl that’s leading the kids grabs his switchblade from the tent the Magic Man reaches the bridge and the streets are awash with electro blue flames brimming up around his toes and at the party back in Finchley he knows they’ll still be the dier drones of techno on the speakers and off in the distance from under the bridge he can see the O2 dome clearer than the moon in the sky and the Man has stopped and the kids have gained on him all that anger brimming in their eyes there’s a varnished hiss as the chrome blade enters the Magic Man’s back and ends the Magic act he's filleted on the floor the children picking his pockets and beating him down like an effigy and the only thing the Magic Man can see is the Man in Red with a whip in his hand and Blue in his heart and veins the Magic Man’s in pain he’s begging them to stop as clubs are dropped with a crunch onto his back and he starts to wretch his lunch up with the blood that looks like crimson mud pooling around his face while the Man drops his hood and shows himself for all he is: he shows no fear in the distance the hero of these blue flames Nero in his red cloak tames the fires to meet his desires and to burn Brixton like Rome and the Magic Man inside and outside dies thinking of the comforts of his suburban home away from the slums in the place that Nero comes to rest in the day after he’s had his play in the streets casting filth and greed into the sheets of the poor and the children stop petrified crying pissing in their places their faces aflame with terror they see Nero too in the streetlamp’s faltering hue but Nero doesn’t wear a cloak he wears a suit and a smile hiding his vile intentions and he shoots the child that did her best that stood up for the rest  when they were freezing on their doorsteps in the chest with his .44.

BANG

The child’s death isn’t mentioned on the morning news or in the papers and her followers run their faces plastered in her heart and blood and soul and the hole gushes out into the floor under the bridge to join the Magic Man’s pool and the Magic Man realises that he has been played for a fool all along he thought he was so cool and rebellious doing what his parents and teachers said was wrong but all along he’s been dancing to Nero’s song destroying the dying and the crying bag by bag score by score the girl’s blood along with the Magic Man’s reach the shores of Nero’s black brogues a black limo rolls up the Royce Phantom is the ride of choice for those with similar pursuits in matching suits direct from Seville row the four boarders bouncing Eton banter to and fro on the leather across the left side of the car greet him.

“did you have fun tonight?”

“not as much as you did from what we’ve seen”

“oh man I tell you boys it was like a fucking dream, this team of tiny tyrants battered this poor dealer patriot doing his part Blue truths in his heart”

“I say old boy you don’t mean the Magic Man?”

“Sadly I do. The Magic Man’s dead”

“No it can’t be true”

“but it is”

“so what did you do Dave? Did you show those urchins what happens when you kill one of ours?”

“too right I did”

The limo lurks among the cars stuck in the streets but even in gridlock Nero continues his speech.

“I shot the main one in the chest, like that slave in Cambodia do you remember that guys?”

“couldn’t forget it if we tried not that we’d want to you understand even though that event got a bit out of hand it was still good fun”

“what can I say if she’d have just given me head she would still be alive”

“but it was the fact that she said called us yuppies that really got my goat”

“not to mention the fact that she got blood on your coat”

“I know what an inconsiderate bitch”

They sail down the road with a fury to watch a Chinatown kitchen combust the whole block burning rubble rattling against the roof of the Rolls screams churning jammed in the back of burning throats crackling in the flames; they smile and keep beaming for another few miles buzzing.

“hey, James just scored from this guy at this boat party rave, do you want a tote? I know it’s not my smoke to give but James is out on his arse over there and I’m not sure he’d care he can always buy more”

And the black car exits into the black wall tunnel funnelling down into the darkness as the day begins and the smoke goes down into Nero’s core buckling scuttling down his ribs to cap off the night and back in Brixton the fires die down but not out they’ll be about again and burning the midnight oil highlighting the turmoil for Nero to enjoy with his boys.

“hey Dave can I make a toast?”

“sure you can Ed”

“Here’s to the Magic Man”

 

Sight-Seeing on Oxford Street - JLG Clift

16 worn white wheels stir against the churning concrete of Oxford Street vibrating with the traffic lumbering at the lights and the wheels whirl beneath their feet on a Saturday racing past me as I stumble to the northern line with my bags of shopping that are already nearly dropping through thinning orange bags about to burst apart like bubble gum and there’s a hum to the boarders movements that I get lost in for a moment as the 4 ride on by black jeans black shirts black boards black skies about tonight starting to drool downtown as the young boarders vie for the crown of the Lost Boys to be placed atop their feathered florescent heads and one’s sailing effortlessly on and on through the crowds eating McCoy’s ready salted or maybe Monster Munch lifted from a closing kiosk he was riding by and they’re crunching away between his teeth as he looks on with a stealing grace and a smirk on his face and the Dead Kennedys rave about the disgrace of a government well before his time in his ears but still he appreciates the rhymes and the riff grift-gained headphones brimming under his beanie. And there’s a priest in the distance saying something in this instance with a failing sarcastic tail that’s lost in his pious Priestly wail down the microphone.

“I live for me and everything is free if I want it to be”

Why doesn’t this prick just leave it alone and go back to his home to sit on his thrown and pick through the collection plate again or go to a young believer’s home to leave a stain on his altar boy robe after he’s has a good probe.

Fucking Vatican scumbags.

 I take another drag of my fag and continue to marvel at the boarder riding on like nothing belongs here but him his favourite song blaring loud enough for me to hear as his rivals jeer at him to no avail the other skaters paling in comparison to the boy pushing forward War Famine Death and Conquest foaming in his ears. He could listen to this song forever and feel perfectly complete as long as he was able to compete with the other 3 on the road who he’s goading as he grinds in front on the hard top Jag dragging off a sheet of sleet grey paint that’s officially silver and he gives them a glare and a finger to follow and the scarred car flares spitting sparks until the last axle finishes leaving its mark and returns to the tarmac rubble riding over the road works with a punk rock grace perfectly out of place in these recession roads going nowhere but the boys weave through the snares that have got us all snagged in their pay-day-loan shark teeth put there by televised thieves you can spot between shows everyone knows but no one cares and on we stare to get picked off in their sights blinded by their lights we can't seem to resist when luck is low and there's no money to go around.

I feel so old and so stale even though I’m only as old as the 4 in my Tom Ford suit thinking about how good the seasoned salmon I’ve just bought will taste with a flute of fresh French bread and they ride on and on and with a silent vibrance they live and I feel like I'm the walking dead like everyone else on the street who’s eyes are greeted by the flowing shadows keeping the wheels in motion shredding through the raging roads of urban ocean with an endless ease.

We’re just cones for them to ride through kicking flips as they jump skips and curbs still fighting for the throne I don’t think they’ve got a home to go to but that doesn’t matter to them because they live for moments like this their wheels skating over a collapsed tramp’s rank piss and the girl to my right is telling her chauffeur about how badly Francis kisses but he doesn’t care and the monster munch packet is dropped into a breeze and the shimmering purple grazes my straining knees and this priest is still pleasing the flock gathering around him in the ruins of what we tried to accrue Blairing greed bleeding through at last making the city a zoo for the church’s propaganda crew to trail through like sewage unfiltered unhalted consoling the masses and the iconoclasts clash with their preaching but the feud’s pointless because they’ve won and the flock minds are gone to religions ever-whirling storm much to my scorn. And the piss hisses and spits into the rich girls face, and gets absorbed into the lace of her Prada clutch and she starts screaming and the skaters continue to cut through us all like razor blades trail blazing neon hair hazy in the street lights and the fight’s drawing to a close as they round to Centre Point through the quiet of Soho square where the he-shes toss the down low city boys that secretly like their tom boys a little more boyish than most and the ghost boy with white hair at the back breezes to the front his lead sealed in the clunk and clatter of his wheels connecting to the pavement so out of place among the pasture patters of the average pedestrian as they get back to Oxford street and the rich girl’s now over the piss rambling about her equestrian skills to her driver about how she used to ride her pony near where Berlusconi’s villa used to be in Sicily.

“but that was before we went bust”

And then the boys fade from my gaze as I look to my side and it becomes clear, I see her trying to hide her sheer jacket that’s several years old and flaking, her shoulders shaking as the chauffeur reaches for her shoulder but she shifts away and then he tries to lift her knock off skirt greasy hand sifting up the fabric as the priest’s static stutters on but she brushes him back and I see the black bags dragging his face down similar sacks around the neon murmurs of her eyes nearly crying and I look to his right and see another girl in a similar state standing there 4 streaks one red one white one blue one green running through the black of her hair that sheens with filth and this one stumbles and mumbles something about riding a horse that gets lost in the pious crescendo of the priest’s preach where he’s teaching the flock to spot and help those in need.

“now let’s repeat our creed”

“good is the plant we are the seed good is the plant we are the seed good is the plant we are the seed”

And in the alley to the right the girl’s pleading as her pimp beats her limp driving fist after fist with viper hisses from between his rusty gold grills he beats her some more for bleeding on his new suit boots from the other girl connecting knocking the girl’s nose out of place to gain favour with her owner as the flock rant on and the chant rings out and I feel like a loner in the chaos and I’m in shell shock as I see the skate rats knock on the window of a Bentley limo and see the driver get out and loose the lock for them and the clouting continues for the girl in the alley and the priest goes on to tell us about Bartimaeus in a Valley near Jericho and above the beaten girl now left alone to rot her wounds clotting but not fast enough I see an advert for the giant merry-go-round at the Plaza that’s out of date and now I long for the underground where I only have to hear the sounds of this place and these people and this city.

“and the lord took pity on the man and let him see the world for all that it was”

Because god’s a comedian.

“and he could see again and he weeped for joy”

And the Lost Boys seep back into their ways done for the day done playing poor in the streets ready to kick back and put their feet up in Chelsea with the rest of the rich and wealthy and this place feels unhealthy to be in tonight my skin feels sleazy my thoughts are uneasy and I feel queasy and I want the priest and the pimp and the boys and my sight to leave me so I can be happy again and I begin running as the priest, now done, walks the ‘final reduction’ shop-slums to spread the words that need to be heard when said by him (apparently) and the girl manages to crawl to shelter from the hail bashing against her bloodied pale skin under a tattered shop canapé that’s closing down any day now and the heard still chase the priest cows tailing a cultural abattoir their feet tracking across the slick earth of the meat works in his path to be churned out through the grinder into a fine paste for the priest to feast upon in exchange for the promise of eternal peace and the sights never cease to shock me no matter how much I’m here and I just want to be free from this disgraceful district. Not that it’s any better out there in the suburbs but at least I’ve got a guy who can sell me some herbs to help let this all go by before my eyes without crying as I watch people die and rot forced by fate to cruelly keep breathing continuing to toss their lots to failing hands stealing their money leaving them stranded and lost.

But I don't have to take these sights anymore tonight.

I make it to the tube and I take my seat and on the last train out I flee from the sick of Oxford Street.

the Prince's Song - JLG Clift

It's the same fucking night and this time I'm the one riling up for a fight for a fist to be flown into the prattling prince rinsing recycled secrets for all they're worth talking about how Lola slash Japan (he likes to speak in code like no one knows who he's on about on occasion about the Caucasian wench i never really liked who's turned dike like that's a surprise to anyone) wasn't woman enough to manage his girth. He's chatting about his cock, he likes to lie a lot if you couldn't guess and the shadows are long in this North London alley tonight all he's doing is breeding hate in my heart. I'm starting to fucking sympathise with that tart for what it's worth, I don't get how she put up with this whining upstart for so fucking long, what the fuck was wrong with her? I'd have Pearl Harboured him on the first fucking date and the prince is going on and on quoting Curtis's songs and linking them to his life and talking about self harming with a rusty knife and if i ever meet a girl i truly hate, i think I'll get her to be this fucker's wife.

I'm not even half way through my deck but the fucks have already turned to fecks from the Irish among us and every other fucking word seems to be a fucking cuss but whatever we move on, only we don't, we move nowhere and that's starting to scare me. We're moving nowhere, we're just staring out blankly and traversing stratospheres on the herbal express but never getting anywhere near to finding our feet or leaving our seat and I'm finding it hard to impress any of the girls that come into my court lately and finding it even harder to speak my own thoughts bately it's the blunt that's halting my pussy hunt but right now I'm blaming it on the cunt still cowing on about the girl long gone.

I must confess I'm starting to loathe him even more than dear old Jimmy the blunderboy who had twitter rant to me about the pleasures of his latest living sex toy. He feels all the need in the world to be coy it seems and plenty a need to brag about what I'm sure are only dreams and that old lesson I've learned about how only those who aren't getting go on about their shags rings a bell right now and out back in the black of a Tally Ho alley, the place where we like to go and love to linger the prince still rages in his rich boy rasp stinging from a swig of the whisky my eyes misty with a mix of boredom and booze and he's prattling on about how he gave her his fingers with an almighty skill but she was too numb to come and he's too dumb to see no one cares, we all switch off any time he shares.

And behind my expression I'm dreaming of a larier me who would give this prick the kick to the crotch that was so hard that I'd send his nuts through his guts and up into space. But I remember my place I remember the fact I'm meant to save but still this prick continues to spew lies about the guys he beat down at this rave last week but when i ask him where it was he fails to speak with a confidence that would make me think of him as anything but what he is and I swear his bullshitting is making my life so bleak I'm finding it a struggle to speak as of late. And it dawns around 1 as it always does that the feelings of hate I have will never trickle down to my fists never will my knuckles meet this smirking lips curling like he thinks the carpet he pulled over everyone's eyes isn't unfurling into the strands of stranded lies piling at his feet. Never, will my hook cause him to trip down the stairs even though no one here would care, even though his parents with a muted relief would weep with a faux pas grief as the coffin passes them by. It'd be such a weight off their shoulders I bet they'd even sigh, completely at peace for the first time in 18 years never will they be bored to tears by political preaching and misquoted teachings. No one would care if he died yet I have to uphold the lie because the consequences of my speaking the truth that's on my mind would have me branded vile, the people who agree with me behind closed doors would put me on trial so I have to keep this fucking smile firmly in place. If only I could but I can't this is all merely a rant to mute the prince's pathetic speech more a preach as a matter of fact but one with no point to it and now he's banging on Lola's sagging fucking rack but only briefly before going on to something new.

"I wouldn't mind that she fucked him, but he's fucking black"

"Can't stand those niggers man"

Another suburban racist what a fucking surprise although these words however foul do make a nice break from the lies. And out of boredom I look up to the skies that roll on in wisps of black. Fuck this I'm going back to the Tavern shack to forget myself among the brick-a-brack of the clientele anything beats the smell of bullshit. So I sit alone wishing I was stoned and order another pint and watch the night roll on till it's all fucking gone and prince is on the floor weeping as the bouncers chuck him out the door and on the street in the sunrise he'll wipe his eyes and pretend that he didn't just confess to the curb that Lola was in fact superb and that he wishes she was his again and how he'd take her back if he could but he can't so next time we all join him I imagine he'll have another rant identical to the one he's just had.

It's hard not to get mad, it's even harder to see that when people believe his story they actually get sad for him, I can't stand seeing stupid people being had and becoming another beam to prop the preacher prince's  'praise be to me' church steeple. His existence is just feeble and meek but there's no point in seeking an answer as to the why this guy is the way he is. He loves the drama he loves the attention so until the end of time he'll never forget to at the very least mention the story explaining why life's so unfair.

And it's all I can bear to stare on and pray that an approaching car strips the flesh from his moaning bones splattering him across the zebra zones of the tarmac street to stop him speaking.

And still the night slips away until it's all fucking gone and the birds are finally singing their morning song but the scene's still being ruined by the boy bitching about how he's been done wrong.

"He'll never stop singing this fucking song, will he?"

"I don't think so man"

Hopefully I won't be around to see. I'll be on my way into another slated day like the one outside the window today, only I won't come back to the Prince's cul-de-sac.

The Hustler - JLG Clift

It's Friday again and down to the Tavern we go and the wind's blowing hard tonight almost aching for a fight against the buildings and the streets and the sleet's forming and the sunset's crooning and I've got to admit it seems like trouble's blooming. Or at least I hope it is, is that wrong? I want something, I want a show this evening. I want anger to flow amongst bloodied suds between one of my oldest buds. And the hustler. Stretching out his bomber bound shoulders across his haggard pool cue and he says to my pal he wants to play a game, a 50 against a brew and everyone's egging him on even though this feels too good to be true but I don't care to part my lips to speak some sense, the song's shit, some bitch singing about the honesty of her hips and I'm dying for a fight to break. I want the room to shake I want flakes of glass to still be lodged in his face when we get to class on Monday to break away from the mundane and now it's raining hard as Marshall 'busts out' over a decent guitar loop and still everyone gets the feeling this geezer's got a scoop on the game we've convinced my mate he knows how to play.

"Pot the black ball before I clear the table and you win"

Keep your mouth shut let your mate take the bet and finish your gin. Whatever happens all that matters is that you really win and the hustler's cue starts to clatter against the chipped coloured balls and the connections ramble thought the claustrophobic pool hall back to the bar out to get lost in the cars on the street and this guy's potting them with and expert precision and my mate's regretting his decision to play along; the hustler's yawning as he continues to rack them up and my mate's in a fury stripping the flem from his throat to spit in the face of the hustler getting ready to gloat as he rounds off on the last ball that counts. And I'm on edge as I can feel the violence mounting. That old fucker's in for a trouncing or a lashing or a battering. Whatever you want to call it a beating is brewing and even now I can feel the fists and faces meeting at the edge of my seat.

"You regretting this yet?"

he asks with a cocky finesse that I'll admit impresses me somewhat due to the distress it give his opponent my friend, his attitude will surely be the final component in his downfall and I'm lounging against the wall watching this all unfold with a smirk.

But, his arm jerks unexpectedly.

The last shot is lazy and grazes by the 8 Ball to rest it's fucking arse on the cushions and this turnout's a fucking farce to be perfectly frank. A scratch, a fucking scratch, Jesus it's like this fucker put the latch on his skill just to perplex me. I could die from the dullness starting to swoon through the room. My mate finishes what the hustler could not and it's at no ones cost but my own. The hustler lost some pride and a 50, but I had to feel my hiding hopes sifting and grinding away through my mind into the droll disappointment piling in the trash with beer snacks and orange rinds.

Am I so completely alone? Am I the only patron of this bar with a want to see something so completely bizarre so completely removed from normality? A bottling to shatter this stale reality. Fucking hell the calamity of these colliding words.

"good game good game"

Oh what a fucking shame how fucking lame how lamentably tame am I'm walking now down Woodside Lane alone dejected, the battle I expected evaporated before my very eyes and I could tell you lies about why I wanted the fight to be had. I could tell you that my mate cheated on his ex, or did something deplorable that made me vexed but I want the truth to stay intact tonight in the clearing blackness of the night. There's no reason for my desire to see anger flare up like fire in his eyes as he looks down at the aged hustler dying on his tattered tartan bar stool, the blood pooling around his trusty cream cue and the sirens sounding off outside as Trident swarm rounding off around the Tavern. I just can't fathom another fightless night where nothing of interest breaches the surface of my youthful exploits. What exploits? There's nothing around to report, just the sight of the purple punching the black out of the night in streaks as sunrise starts to speak over the sleet and remains of the rain and the chrome moon fades in a haze starting to submit to the creases of day above my head.

And I'm going home. 

Friday Night....Or Something - JLG Clift

So the evening has gone from the Camden Sprawls where the Buck minus the Head with a golden pout rusting on his hinged mount lurks, and the town’s twisting from a recessive lynching in the grooves of yesteryear, slowly we moved, on the 102’s listing root that feels like it’s been scrawled across the northbound boroughs to the furrows of a suburban home where greenery surrounds in the hush of the darkness and I’ve seen the would be prince prattle hurling rattle after rattle from his stroller weeping for dear Lola who could not attend to everyone with ears to shoot at; but have no fear Lola is near, banging the boy next door; well not next door, but you know how it goes and now the boy knows how hard she blows and I’m far from enjoying the show tonight; the ‘Prince’, he thinks someone’s becoming him; he thinks too much of himself more wealth than sense I guess and it’s 2:30AM and the burnouts smoulder in their doused hula hoops and unlit fire sticks loop through the air of the living room.

 ‘watch the TV, mind the portrait’

The host’s patience is grating but the dampened display spins on and another Foster fostered in his grip is gone in a gulp to swerve the nerves and the egotist to my right keeps telling me how the gash he’s been getting is so tight.

‘as tight as my abs’

 He’d never forget the abs and a contact ball rolls across the floor and is caught by the girl at the door who goes onto control the orb with an absolute poise and the noise from the speakers is still going and the drink is flowing and everyone is watching in suspended awe as she explains how the ball is used as it continues to cruise across her hands and fingertips.

 ‘you have to keep it in the centre; it’s called isolation’

The ‘bro’ quotes a cut rate quip about the nation trying to pass it off as his own before seg-waying into a rant about his current bout of Insanity-induced constipation; it brings a downwards slant to my smile I must confess and this boredom has put me under such duress I’d like to put my hand to his face punch the buck loose from his front tooth. Like I care, like I fucking care but I don’t want to share tonight so I have to endure the right man gnawing on my lobe; there’s no need for a fight there’s no need to put a right foot wrong or right or change the song that sounds like it’s stuck and this ‘bro’ goes on informing me of his latest fucks.

‘whatever guy, whatever guy’

It’s all gas like she’d ever bat an eye towards his braille bound face when she’s got an ass like he describes, if she’s got an ass like he describes. Weights only go so far and she’s not ever going to wait for him as a fresh joint is passed to the left from another girl’s slim fingertips her lipstick stuck to the skin and it’d be a sin not to tote away as the jammed chorus continues to play on and on and on.

‘where do ideas come from?’

Where don’t they?

 ‘Happy 18^th mate’

‘we’re cutting quickly for another crate’

 where did all this hate come from? What did these hapless hopeless cross legged weed freaks slow to speak and slower to their feet but quick to the draw taking totes from a fresh score do wrong and why don’t they change the fucking song or kick the speaker or close the door behind them or change the fucking record.

Or something.

‘are you enjoying your birthday?’

No.

‘Yes’

I did not confess it’s not worth the stress to challenge what I’ve outgrown because now the draw is done and we can all go home and this can all go away until, come what may, we roll up again.

‘same time next year?’

Do I have a choice?

Do I voice my views?

‘sure’

What’s the fucking point? Give me a drink and a joint and let the booze flow like lava and I’ll try to loose myself from this wealth of anti-social thoughts.

Or something.