On Morphine
(after my lung collapsed)
I saw all four Beatles
in a green stuffed pepper
one lunchtime, and Jesus
in my ward shower curtain.
The words on the page
of the book I was reading
leaped and pirouetted
like ants in a ballet.
It was trippy, almost worth
nearly dying for,
but considering I had
to piss through a tube
for a week, I wouldn’t
recommend you try it.
Remembering Lew and London
I don’t suppose now –
with you gone where? –
that I will stumble through
the city streets again
like we did, before you died,
getting drunk and scoring
high-grade weed
in pubs, then singing
under wheeling stars.
Tea Break, Day One on the Job
and then you start saying,
with fire in your eyes,
‘I’m getting fucking sick
of political correctness.
You can’t say a fucking thing nowadays
without offending someone,’
and you tap your ash off.
I think, ‘Oh Christ,’
and in this brand-new place,
I wonder if I’ll ever be
surprised again.
Police State
(Britain, a year or two from now)
For fuck’s sake,
Holly hissed
at Jack,
and pulled him
back down
by the shirt.
Light beams
arced around
the woods.
In the valley,
by the big rock,
they were dragging
handcuffed kids
from trucks.
Holly pressed
a finger
to her lips,
drew out
a butcher knife.
Two heavy boots
were coming
through the brambles.
Dumpster Fire Press 