We smoke by the canal,
getting high;
lamenting our lack of a decent broken home,
British hip-hop in the static of the upper classes.
They're doing more with their time,
old analogue transmissions, sleep-filled afternoons;
a paperback revolution, a snail's pace progression,
those ancient roads of forgotten travel,
the routes we had given up too soon.

I am too impatient now,
seeking The High
over inner peace, those new-found techniques
in favour of old habits; instantaneous retreat.
It's okay, this interludal existence, high-wire dependency
for a feeling ill-placed in sober routine.
We give up on chasing women
to chase heights we know we can never reach.

We smoke some more,
an artist's tomb;
the coffee table piano, old acoustics
with malformed necks, waning ligament of string.
Let's fill the emptied social scene,
appear red-eyed in the daylight,
pawing for a comfortable release.
We talk about hitting those unsung chords,
then we roll another, another,
until we cannot sing anymore.

Two escapists converge
to hustle the prison;
get high on the prospect
of getting high in the future.
We smoke by the canal,
feeling low, unstrung.
The out-of-tune white man blues,
pleading for acceptance
from the crowds we love to criticise.