Posts Tagged ‘pot’

purple

Henry ran out of whisky and switched to weed

An ounce bought from a slightly dodgy fellow poet

Henry’s mate, Captain Conehead, came over for a smoke

“Choppety Choppety Captain Conehead” said Henry

Captain Conehead chopped up a couple of buds with some white ox

Stinky buds, purple nurple, the ultimate high in the sky

 

Henry packed his pipe, lit and inhaled

A warm fuzzy numbness descended on his brain

Everything was funkier, more interesting, more amazing

He put on the Beatles and started to sink into his chair

This is a most excellent day Captain Conehead he said

For all Henry’s paranoia and raving insanity was resolved with a few cones

And for once, he didn’t feel alone

 

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Trip through life and suck on sky

These concrete moments make me high

Sometimes I feel like I’m going to die

Someday I will tell you why

Bend the twilight into shape

While the heavenly harridan gapes

Things fall to pieces, shattering into dust

Crackling, crinkling deforming as entropy increases

While the bird in my brain tweets inane gibberish to cauterize my mind

And my limbs become robotic in under a flagrant moon

The moon that sucks on my wound

Stars that pinprick my eyes

I’m dying, I’m frying

I’m flying, I’m flying

Over vast swaying fields of marijuana

Stinky green crumbly buds with orange hairs

Everywhere

velvets

 

When I was in a band

We thought we were going to be famous

And snort cocaine out of groupies’ butt cracks

Get married to some hot models

Or maybe Winona Ryder

And take an amount of drugs that would scare the shit out of Keith Richards

We had a go at doing the drugs

One time we even got paid in Morphine

And pretended to be Lou Reed

Many times I was kicked out of my own gigs

Drunk off my head and acting like a lunatic

So I didn’t have much luck with the women

‘Cos I was too fat and weird

We always did well with the bizarre guys with dreadlocks at the back of the bar

‘Who would love our silly pot songs

And ridiculous attempts to channel Iggy Pop

When the band broke up

‘Cos the other members started breeding

I was sad

Scrapes

Posted: November 1, 2016 in poetry
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Rapid scrapes
In my mind
Pot music
Carousing
Imbibing
Sometimes
But
Not
Not
Not
To a great extent
Only
In dreams
Forest
Earth-light
Oranges

party

Will you be there?
I will be there with my many friends
I will get drunk and stoned and run a humungous muck
I will hit on all the single women and attempt to be interesting
And some woman may find me interesting
Come on, it has happened before
Occasionally
There will be some cool bands there churning out distorted indie goodness
It will rock like a hit of cocaine
In an intimate vein

Will you be there?
It is likely that someone will choke on their own vomit
Which is a nasty way to go but better than choking on someone else’s
There will be rivers of alcohol and forests of weed
Tobacco and pot smoke will be thick as the conversation
People will exhibit joy and fascination
With each other and with the moments of togetherness
Which grow into an ecstatic peak through group synergy
Then subside into nothingness as everyone goes home to their hangovers

orange_bud

I’m running out of cones
The guinea-pigs are squeaking with hunger
They also need new newspaper and attention
The bedroom is a war-zone, festering and corrupt
The sheets are dirty and full of holes
The floor drowns in empty cigarette butts
Dirty coffee cups everywhere
I’m running out of cones
My imaginary girlfriend has a boyfriend
I’m going to die alone

I’ve lost my mobile phone
I’m running out of cones
There are plates all over the floor
There are lunatics at the door
I am tired and I am sore
I can’t take it any more
I think you know the score
I’m running out of cones
I have itchy balls
Desperation crawls up walls
Madness lurks within the halls
My brain feels full of eels
You don’t care how I feel
I’m running out of cones

pigs

Blue-uniformed blowfly stealing my stash
Moloch embodied with pseudo-military uniforms and bank-manager minds
Evil hollow fascist stealers of the sunshine in my heart
Crucifiers of Christ with their violence and their racism
Suburban nazi nice-hair getting in my face
Why don’t they go and bust some meth dealers
He says ‘Do you have anything on you?’
Fuck off pig buy your own damn drugs
These are mine
They cost me sixty bucks
And now you’re going to send me a fine
Which I won’t pay just to stick it to the man
Give me back my drugs you fucked up Nazi cunts
They would have soothed my brain to happiness in the late night anal darkness where spectral armies march across the war-field of my consciousness
They would have taken me to golden meadows of delectable satisfaction and calm green sunrise hallucinatory mull-fields
They would have inspired me to write cabalistic poems and howl at the midnight moon like a Wookie
They would have taken me through a tea-head trip of intricate pastel colours and conjured up an anxiety-free life
They would have enabled me to hear the song of Ginsberg renewed naked, innocent and genitally holy
They would have bathed my brain in THC and ripped out my inner demons
Give me back my drugs you fucked-up Nazi cunts

Good Friday Ganja

Posted: April 10, 2015 in poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

orange_bud
It’s Thursday night
Got to get some weed before Good Friday
But it’s past six thirty and Bill won’t be on
So I call Tiressa and ask her if she’s got any
It’ll be an hour she replies by text message
So I stuff around by the shops aimlessly
And generally try to waste time
Buy a paper, read it
Have at least five cigarettes
Walk up and down the road
Think to myself:
‘How many hours have I spent waiting for drugs-
A fucking shit-load I bet’
Time seems to wander in maple syrup
The sun slows down and burns a hole in the ground
Then I try to ring her again as the hour is up
I can’t get through to her so I walk down to her place
When I get there she says it will be another hour
Now my bullshit detector is going off
I’ve been in enough drug deals to know that her suppliers are screwing her around
I should try somewhere else
So I ask her if she knows anywhere
She says ‘why don’t you try the Maoris down the street next to the shops’
So I ask her how to find them
She says walk down the road for about three hundred metres and look for a red commodore wagon
So I head off and soon get back to the road next to the shops
Walk about three hundred metres and I see the red commodore wagon
Knock on the door, and I tell them Tiressa sent me and I’m looking for some sticks
The cuddly Maori woman at the door says ‘No worries, I know what it’s like to be without a smoke-
I’ll just go and ask my husband. How many do you want?’
I say, ‘I’d like four,’ and give her a hundred bucks.
She takes the money and closes the door.
I’m thinking ‘Fuck! I hope they don’t rip me off.’
But she’s back soon, with foils
Haven’t seen foils for fifteen years.
These days dope usually comes in little plastic bags
But they look an OK size-wise
I thank her and head back up the road
I see a factory surrounded by bushes as I’m walking
So I stop off behind the bushes and have a couple of cones with my pipe
‘Fuck me,’ I think to myself, ‘this is the best shit I’ve had for years!’
My brain feels like it’s been encased in a warm pulsating psychedelic blanket
A succulent green haze descends on my consciousness and I feel incredibly free of anxiety and relaxed.
Heavenly visions of translucent summer days dance through my skull
Those Maoris know their weed
So by this stage it’s about 9:30,
I get on the train and head home.

Busted

Posted: January 24, 2015 in poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

Transit_Officer_header
When you take the train in Perth
Watch out for the Train Nazis
With their blue uniforms and batmanesque utility belts
With moronic bloody caps and badges
With their casual racism and brutality
With their batons and pepper spray
With their mein kampf minds and tiny dicks
With their macho domination and oppression
With their Hitler aggression and plutonium stare
One time
In the nineties
Riding back from Fremantle to Armadale
A Train Nazi with a Constable Care moustache asks me for my ticket and pensioner concession
So I open my wallet to get the ticket out
And there’s a stick in my wallet
A fifty of stinky buds in aluminium foil
And he says
I can see your ganja! I can see your ganja!
So they arrest me
And take me back to Nazi Pig Central
Grand High Pig Reichstag of Perth
And I’m locked up in a cell with some scary looking dudes for a while
Then when they take me out they ask me if I have any more drugs on me
And me, being a sarcastic idiot, I say
‘Yeah, I’ve got a kilo of smack stuck up my ass’
So that was pretty bloody stupid
They strip searched me
And two pigs peered up my asshole in a desperate and somewhat homoerotic search for a mythical kilo of smack
Then they let me put my clothes on
And after two more hours in a cell with the scary dudes
They let me out
Then I had to call my parents to pick me up
They were not amused

bud
Hopping on the train to Queens Park
Sixty bucks in my hand with a heart full of hope, John Lennon spectacles and a Hawaiian shirt
Time to make a deal on covert corners
I get there
The door’s wide open but a guy jumps out of a parked car and asks
‘Are you chasing?’
‘Yeah
Follow him through the doorway
He pulls out a metallic thermos and opens it up
It’s crammed full of sticks
‘How many you want’
‘Two’
I hand over the mullah and secrete the little pillows of happiness in my pocket
Leaving the house, I head for the station
Stop in a park where the old library used to be facing the station and pack a cone
Intake of sweet smoke, so much nicer than tobacco
A haze of lime-green satisfaction descends
The grass is green as a rainforest
The sky is azure bright and unimpeded by clouds
Then I roll a smoke and head for the station
Ten minutes to wait for the train to Oats Street