The Heater

the cat eyes me like a china-man, through kitchen clouds of hashish.

There are leafs in the tea, then Grandmother feeds the cat polo-mints.

Someone had vomited into the bong.

A brick went through the window, because the room was filling up with smoke.

We bought brown squashed herbs at a market-stall.

A famous plane crashed and a few minutes later the tin of weed is washed down the sink.

The girls are young tarts, they line the walls of a tiny bedroom, smoking cannabis, I'm too frightened.

I hold my head out of a fast car, like a doggie, passing fields of yellow.

A cube is found in the gaps of the ' settee. '

I hide my block under the fridge when the cops come knocking. I lock myself out, they drive me to my uncles, I look out of the little barred window, and I arrive in a riot van.

Leaf after leaf.

I bump into boys in the dark night, on the bridge over the railway, and they sell me a block. 

I decline a joint, inside the smoking room hospital, bumping into the woman-smoker late into the night. ---

Some-ones put buds in a sparkly white-silver dust. So, I know it's time to climb through the hallucination, begin the nuclear war. More buds in dust, a regular free supply.

---

The heaters too hot, and the television is screaming. Ash trays, offered ashtrays. Disappointment. ...Love. The Angel of Hope stares, twists a leather foot round and round.

The rise;

"We the People; ...."

"KILL THE CATS! KILL THE CATS!!!!!!!!!!" I'm standing naked in an empty bath. Splat! Goes the cat, found covered in petrol and thrown over the alley wall...

---

The hand movements are like an effeminate king.

Peach is the colour of a good mother. There are mixes that fly around sometimes, and I reject them, like cobalt blue mixed grey with white.

---


A significant event:

The beginning of Hippie;

A nuclear showdown, the aftermath inside a terraced house' kitchen. 5 people known to have survived. Drives into petrol-garages, lost in a silk cover of lemon-white glowing light. Unhappy. Fought. Disgusted. Pass Anne Bolyn highway, roudn a same roundabout, because Im high and the driver is screaming...

So all the country roads of England are singing, mass of dark green highways, round and round, never stop driving,

I see; The Crown of England.

"I am the Queen of England. Why?? Do you know what I see? Why are you killing, me, why are you killing me? Look at the colour, the colour of England is Lord...."

The driver screams, he has every opportunity to kill. He slams the car, and it goes round and round, he'll force me down drive me to Satan. He spin my head til I'm weeping in the passenger seat.

I can feel that Evil is rising.

I'm happy in the glow of Lord.

I have to drive away, the house is full of smoke, the walls are black, the man are sick.

"I can't breathe, I can't breathe."

I vomit at the backdoor, and cry for Queen Brigid...She's hunted in a song, she is the Fertility, the Arts...she is the feminine screaming in traffic of heavy metal tools, metal boxes...

There are work-mens tools all over the house.

"I'm allergic to metal."

The fungus grew all over the spare room, mould, in tins and jars, and fungus up the walls, spilling over the table, all over the bed.

I painted the window sill, with flowers and colourful figures.

I brought a growth of flowers/ "fungus" here. I took the power of Mother Earth. And I am here.

She gave the feminine ... the ultra feminine.

She sent a sign, And I'm ready to fight. I wont go. I will fight.

---

I'm seated in faint guitar instrumentals, holding a rolled cigarette, the sparkly white dust on the beds. Is driving em in silver horses to The Angels of Hope's house, a pageant of towns-people lining the pavements down my route, down my road. My town.

It's a prettier high that I want again and again.

I must have died.

I was in shock, so she sat me down, the sunlight darkened by the closed curtains, and sat on the other end of the settee.

It was the shock of the kissing...

It was the most, closest moment to Death.

It was a sleepy lover, instrumental music, gold and orange sun in curtains of black. No-one outside, no one ever. Just one.