walking back from
    an off-license,
plucked myself a bunch
of rowan...

and reimagined myself
as a child,

rolling metal pellets into
my mouth
   from the awkward
levelling of my
communist balcony...

now as i drink this
whiskey...
  and throw a few rowan
"pellets" down my gob...

remembering
that grown ups used
to call them: poison berries...

****... the sparrows didn't
die from plucking them!

let's find out and see
what the effects of rowan is
like, not being firstly chewed,
but gulped down...

like a sparrow might.

trans-categorical odes:

  O, old rose - tell me of you,
and of me!
   why are your petals in the infant
stage considered
a delicacy in persia and among
the turks...
   while your mature buds,
your fruits only fit for sparrows
and not man?
who deems them to be poison?

****...
  the amount of **** i've drank...
a little bit of "supposed"
poison can't actually hurt...

  and if it does?
                             thumbs up!