when i met that russian worth of a hag
she made fun of my late bloom
into the rolling "scene"...
  i hear that lenny kravitz has
   a roller-guy,
    someone to roll his blunts, skints,
or whatever you want to call a joint...
****, if i made a video...
            orge fingers like surgical scalpel
incissions, while drinking...
creating this "origami"...
obviously you start off with
   red rizla rolling papers,
and a slim, not an extra slim filter...
          much later, the roach...
swan filters...
             yeah yeah, much later the longer
rolling papers,
    but even my dementia suffering
grandfather noticed my skill,
and hence came the subsequent
compliment...
               but then you have to remember
to torch the fresh rollie...
notable with golden virginia
tobacco... which is fresh,
i.e. slightly wet, so you can feel it being
able to pass through a ****'s
worth of a breath...
once rolled, you heat it up...
     once i met a guy at a glasgow
bus station,
   who was "visiting" the city,
                  for the occassion of seeing his
brother released from jail,
what crime? dunno...
he started to talk about playing guitar...
right hand served as
            the neck,
   left hand was left to simulate
the chords on his... right arm...
            well, yeah...
numbed left-hand fingertips...
          something akin to that 7even
tactic of dipping your fingers into bleach
and then scrubbing with sandpaper
to hide the markers...
                      sunday...
more like: windsday...
          flush after flush of impromptu
   zephyrs...
              so one roll, after another...
and... i just became glued to
a point of interest that compromised of
a magpie monogamy...
     always with the tail, the magpie tail,
twitching...
         yet always so slick...
and this little teunonic ****** is doing
his best, the female strolls,
somewhere on the roof,
somewhere in my neighbour's garden
on the ground...
   and this wee ****** flies from one
tree to another,
   a tree half in spring envy of bloom,
half readied for a summer diet of sun
and very little rain...
   and like some meme of a t-rex
folding a bed...
            pinching off branches
         with great effort, and then flying
off to that newly-wed home tree,
knitting out a nest...
                   i guess you'd call that fun,
but i'd call it:
   thank god i don't have a "duty"
to spend my saturday nights drinking
with fwends, in a nightclub like i used to...
and that's in between
  listening to tim pool
               talk about marvel comic books
turned movie: "theories"...
   later i plan to take out the garbage,
peel some potatoes,
   and **** into a chair...
                   for that: "ripple effect"
                in the vicinity of ****-cheeks...
not exactly what you might
call: a day in the life of odysseus...
hell... it's still a day...
          and just getting out of bed,
without having to resort to a motivational
prompt of throwing myself
under a train in a 20x reel repeat...
         any social stigma,
  associated with drinking by myself
this early in the afternoon...
fizzles out...
                  replaced with the memory
of 6am...
    that haunting brightness slack
of morn - sly born impromptu of
                the awaiting zenith of day...
         well... i guess that's that.