I sat with Billy in his caravan
buffeted by winds and squalls
and at other times
roasted by summer heat
scalding the tin roof
lolling in oven like conditions
as we drank luke warm beer
[the fridge only periodically worked
when hit with a hammer]
and in cyclical freezer like conditions we drank
supermarket smartprice whiskey
musing over edgeland legends
and urban decay
and towns with no cheer
which was always the cue for some
Tom Waits
[old record player/vinyl/much drunken sing-alongs]
the cheap liquor slipping down
a bin burning outside
ragged crows cawing
and Billy laughing saying
he has reached the heights of consciousness
he calibrates with the saints
on the level of spiritual vibrations and
he knows this because he’s done the tests
found a book in a skip
putting the world to rights with a divine glow
safe in his kingdom
slouched over vintage **** mags
in Billy’s caravan.