Acid chair - You, all legs-up-to-here and posh-as-you-like

You, all legs-up-to-here and posh-as-you-like sprawled on that revolting old foam chair bed; itching. You looked at the scars on my face - still red, not faded as they are now - and talked through me... no shag for me then.

You said your man wanted me to get him some acid - I had none of that... and he was off to Chile - Lord of the Mansion, old money with new on top, one of Thatcher's children - dealing guns for Britain to Pinochet to kill poets no doubt; not that your man was bothered with that, the market would sort out the morality of the situation. Though I quite wished I'd had some acid - to send him on his way with a very bad trip.

Damp night, cold room, not enough entertainment to cover the smell of must and the grey dripping of uncomfortable time that seeped through the ceiling... and I wondered just how far your legs did go up above the bottom of your top - there must be, I wondered as I drifted in and out of sleep, some eventual point of convergence, physics (not to mention biology) surely demanded it.

A song to praise the death of many a poet - and the friend of Margaret, daughter of a grocer.

The Past - legs-up-to-there and posh-as-you-like

The Past was there - on the bench, back the way we had come....

It was sitting there - still somehow calling us as we sat and ate sandwiches and shared shit cheap diesel wine from the bottle.

So, as we walked back that way we spoke about how we might help the Past spend its time (so much time and not a nice place to spend it) - perhaps buy it a sandwich too (it certainly wasn't getting any of our wine).

So you, all legs-up-to-here and posh-as-you-like walked up to the Past and went to offer it a snack - but you recoiled - stepped back - revolted - that Past, on that bench, just around the corner from Smithfield had its cock out, wanking at the passers by.