Never was one of those dads - those druggie dads
still living their youth through their kids
passing a blunt to a daughter when she reached 14.
Cutting up coke on the sanitary in a cubicle of some terrible club
Like I was some whale coming to town.
Leering at the girls like I had a shot.
But then you find yourself on the floor screaming
while your wife's on the phone to some doctor
in some call centre who doesn't know
and couldn't care less, just asks the algorithm what
to do for you and your sodding back.
Doctor fixes up a big score - five boxes of Codeine
2 boxes of Diazepam, and a bunch of Cannabis Oil just
to ease your pain - now you're sorted.
And it's a puzzle; what do you do with all that shit?
Codeine transforms to Morphine, sweet sister
Morphine, will you wait while euphoria sits on the shelf?
And I remember
being fascinated, watching
Shaun crouched in the corner,
his paraphernalia; works - spikes - spoons
the belt gripped tightly in teeth
then the relax
after the pain of
the needle
then coming back for his brew
on the sofa, a joy about him.
Or those mad parties in Hulme
and was it that Ian Brown in Charles Barry?
And what was it on that foil we were chasing?
And Fazz whose cooker we nicked
before his dealers torched his flat.
And Nico who had perfected a sort of
beautiful stillness out of it all.
And Whispering Bob, and Big Brian, and
Pat the Trip Dispenser.
But I digress; these are perhaps stories
for another time.
Now here I am on my leather couch,
60 mg of Codeine,
2 mg of Diazepam,
3 oz of the Laphroaig,
the sight of pale summers in its crystal glass,
waiting for take-off.......
