Robin Hood

His name was Graham Hood, so naturally, we all called him Robin. He hated the moniker, but he was stuck with it – many people thought it was his real name. Buddha was to blame; he was the first to daub him ‘Robin Hood’ as a joke – he once referred to me as Little John, but wilted under my baleful glare. The appellation never surfaced again and I was relieved, the wrong nickname can be a death sentence for your credibility and I often pondered what part his name played in Robin’s fall from grace. It must be hell to be referred to constantly by an alias that you hate.

Robin was the grand zombie and prince of thieves. His habit was tattooed into his flesh with a million track marks – there wasn’t a vein in his body he hadn’t tapped out. The monkey on his back was toothless with age and so was Robin; his teeth had long gone the way of his scruples. Robin’s idea of wealth redistribution was to rob the poor to pay his dealer. He was always on the lookout for a fast buck; which is why he once tried to rob a bank – with his usual half-arsed aplomb.

He was sick, real sick, after three days without a hit. We could see that he was in trouble which is why we were playing him at pool for pints and letting him win. We didn’t know that he had been down to the bank where he had taped an ‘out of order’ message over the night depository with the instruction to post the cash through the bank’s letterbox. He had also taped a plastic bag to the inside of the letterbox and stuffed it inside. He intended to return to the scene to fish out what money he could once all the local businesses had closed for the day.

It was a stroke of genius by Robin’s standards and he might have gotten away with it had a wary shop keeper not phoned plod with his suspicions. The fact that Robin was late and miraculously drunk when he finally got to the bank did not help. He was just about to extract the bag from the letterbox when Sergeant Holden stepped out of the shadows.

“Hold it son, don’t touch the bag!” He was doing Robin a huge favour. If he had laid his hands on the cash he would have been done with robbery – instead of attempted robbery. As it was a cruel judge fetched Robin three years in Saughton jail for his efforts. His life truly hit the skids after that. He could be seen panhandling for change in the High Street most days and the rumour was the he had become quite an accomplished cat burglar by night. It’s good to see that the government’s re-education and rehabilitation services had an impact on Robin’s life.

I sometimes wonder what became of Robin. I lost touch with many of my old compadres when I left the city. He was in so deep that I don’t suppose he ever got out of the life. I imagine that he overdid one day – his last hit proving as fatal as his first.

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Astral Voyager

We were at Danny’s place listening to records and relaxing with some good ganja. It was chilly in his drafty flat, but the grass and lashings of hot tea kept our minds off the cold. Danny was at least ten years my senior – which seems like a lifetime when you are only nineteen. Despite the age difference we apparently had much in common, like literature, music and of course drugs – we were both very keen on drugs. It was deeper than a hobby with us – it was more of a vocation.

To tell the truth Danny was a much heavier user than I was; he had a long standing junk habit which meant he had to have hits at regular intervals or he’d get sick. I was never into skag; I was afraid of it. I could never have lived the life of a junkie; I hated needles for one thing and couldn’t deal with deprivation for another. I respected Danny, but I could never live in the frugal manner he did. Of course I attributed his thrift to the heroin; I did not realise at the time that he was also supporting an estranged wife and two kids. Many people had warned me to beware of Danny simply because he was an addict – but he was always straight with me and everybody else as far as I could tell.

We were listening to Todd Rundgren’s Utopia, Danny’s choice not mine, and I was standing at the window watching the snow fall when the phone rang. Danny answered it and turned to me. “It’s Buddha”, he said, “he’s been looking for you,” and he held out the phone.

“Get your arse up here post-haste John boy – I have a surprise for you.” Buddha sounded excited, but I hated it when he called me ‘John boy’ I was a good three or four inches taller than him and only two years his junior.

“What is it?” I asked – knowing full well he would not tell me. He loved to be mysterious did Buddha. “It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you now would it?” he replied.

“This better not be a wind up”, I warned him, “It’s brass monkeys out there.”

“Just get your arse up here and bring Danny – you won’t be sorry I promise”

We took the lucky thirteen bus into town. The snow was still falling as we trudged up to Buddha’s pad. We found him highly animated and speaking at ten to the dozen.

“Come in boys – take the weight off. Would you like a cuppa, a glass of wine, a wee dram?” He was buzzing around his flat rearranging his soft furnishings and checking his reflection in the mirror, he was always a little vain was Buddha. “I suppose you are wondering why I sent for you?” he beamed. We both rolled our eyes but nodded in assent.

“Well, follow me lads,” and he led us into the kitchen where we found a mountain of white powder waiting for us on the worktop.

“This,” said Buddha sorting out three large lines from the mound of white stuff “is pure methamphetamine sulphate – crystal meth to the uninformed; snort it and watch the diamonds roll from your eyes.”

So we did and it was good, it was very good. With the initial rush my blood engorged veins glowed electrically with a million watts of creamy power. It was prolonged and orgasmic, so strong I that I felt nauseous and only just held down my lunch as cold beads of sweat erupted from my forehead. Then I felt a great euphoric wave envelop me and I was expanding and unfolding into the universe over and over again. I was as light as a feather now that the weight of life was lifted from my shoulders; you could have dropped me in the ocean and I wouldn’t have left a ripple.

“So d’ya dig it?” asked Buddha, “I knew you’d be surprised. I can get unlimited quantities of this shit. I know the guy who runs the lab somewhere in Perth. I can lay it on you, any quantity you like, starting at eighty an ounce. You’re getting it pure because you are mates, but you can step all over it and still sell it on at a tenner a gram – it’s a license to print money.”

It was too good an arrangement to turn down, so Danny and I opted for four ounces each just to test the market. Little did we know that we’d be snorting a hell of a lot of this stuff ourselves in the months ahead. Nor did we realise what a problem that it would become – especially for Danny who was already strung out on smack. We toasted our new enterprise with another line and agreed that it was indeed auspicious karma that we had landed such a sweet deal.

“This stuff is ambrosia,“ said Buddha, “the crème de la crème. They’ll be beating down our doors to get to it. We’re gonna be rich gentlemen – we’ll be rolling in it.”

We glided out of Buddha’s place and onto the snow white streets a couple of hours later, it was already growing dark. We were immaculately high and did not even feel the cold. Our bus was late and we figured it might not arrive at all with the snow lying so thickly. So we decided to walk home, but stopped at Moscardini’s cafe for a cup of tea and another furtive line on the way.

We were wrapped in conversation all the way back; we just could not stop talking. We were so engrossed we didn’t see the police car drawing up beside us until an officer called out, “Hold it a minute boys.” My heart was in my mouth as the copper got out of the car and crunched through the snow towards us. He enquired where we were destined and we indicated we were on our way home. He asked our names and addresses and I gave him mine, but Danny hesitated a beat before answering.

“Astral Voyager,” he said.

“What was that?” asked the bemused cop.

“Astral Voyager,” repeated Danny, “It’s my name.”

My heart sank. This was no time to be playing jokes with the police. I had four ounces of pure methedrine in my pocket. I thought we were headed for the cop shop and a search which could only conclude in a bust. The copper turned and spoke to his oppo in the squad car who ran a radio check for Astral Voyager at 138b Leith Walk. It came back positive – there was indeed an Astral Voyager residing at that address. Evidently satisfied the cops drove away and we began to laugh the way only immortals can. Danny explained he’d changed his name by deed poll back in his Hare Krishna days and that he had never officially reverted back when he left the temple.

“You lived in a temple?”

“Sure, for three years almost.”

“I never knew that.”

“No reason why you should.”

I was beginning to realise I really knew very little about Danny, or should I say Astral Voyager. He was now a proper man of mystery in my eyes. I knew he was a sound geezer and a good laugh and I knew he liked Todd Rundgren and drugs, but I never knew he had lived in a temple. I didn’t know he was a skilled welder either until I bumped into him on a construction site one day. There’s the cliché about junkies; that they are all liars and cheats, but I never heard of anybody being ripped off by Danny. It was always a point of principle with him that he worked for a living and paid his own way. There was nothing tragic about this man; he was a born survivor and a decent human being.

I lost touch with Danny when I moved away, but I bumped into him again about twenty years later. He told me he was straight now and that he had remarried and was living in one of those fancy houses in the New Town. He asked about Buddha and we reminisced about how fucked up we both were with that speed and how fried our brains got through malnutrition and sleep deprivation. Of course Buddha was still tweaking – he couldn’t function without amphetamines; we marvelled at the man’s stamina but agreed that meth was too much like hard work to be considered fun.

We had a good long conversation and we agreed to meet up again soon, but we never did. Someone told me later that he contracted some virulent form of cancer that felled him quite suddenly. When I heard I felt my world shrink a little and my mind went back to that day in the snow. I hope Danny’s beliefs were a comfort to him in the end and that the gods were kind to him when his time finally came.

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Compulsive

there is no gelt     in this writing lark     no final reward     just a hunger  an insatiable need     to press the keys     and play the notes   that fill the page     typing done     I am alone     I work best alone  but I sleep best     with company     and it’s meant     to be that way   no virtual life for me     I love flesh and blood     for I was born    of flesh and blood     to go the way     that all flesh does     not prematurely     but after a long while     when I’ve perfected     my papers     and catalogued     my women     in alphabetical order  or numerical significance     according to rank     and ability

Buddha

“You have to hustle,” that’s what Buddha says, “If you want to make a buck you can’t fuck about, no credit and no tasters. It’s cash on the barrel every time; cash is the only currency available. If your deals are straight down to the nearest fraction and the quality is high your reputation will flourish. A good reputation guarantees sales so remember to never be stingy with the deals and never punt anything you wouldn’t smoke yourself.”

Buddha’s been a speed freak most of his days. He’s a strict vegetarian and without blood and bones to fill his guts he’s outlived most of his contemporaries and never known a day’s illness in his life. Or so he says. His place is a mess; a sick fluorescent light stutters and strobes in and out creating jagged time in his bombed out kitchen. The sink is full of pots dishes encrusted with gastronomic anomalies like salmonella and botulism. It’s a regular doper’s scullery for weighing deals, cooking crack and smoking hot knives from the stove. Poor Buddha, he was once the golden boy – surely one of the chosen. He was that older kid who seemed wise to everything a young hipster should know. We were like brothers back in the day when we used to dex cough syrup together which he washed down with orange juice and I with El Dorado wine.

Disgusting though it is I’m in the kitchen because I have no time for fraternisation with the motley natives who festoon Buddha’s living room. Besides, I have a bottle of scotch which I will share with no man. I need the whole hit, the fire in my belly, the saturation of my soul. Music drifts in though the open kitchen window; a familiar melody from my youth and numb reverberations of times past have me untied for a moment until I recognise my surroundings. I’ve been here before – I’m in the Buddha’s kitchen and not fully compos mentis. I take a long slow drag and it feels warm and thick as it coils in my lungs and produces a dull throbbing in the brain pan.

“It’s simple.” Buddha says, “There’s no great mystery. No secret recipe. You breathe in – you breathe out, you breathe in – you breathe out. Everything is perfectly natural, but there is no explanation, so you can forget about that.”

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Accidental

it could happen   to anyone   at any time   but it should never   have happened here   not to me   and not to you   no, not to us   alone amongst smiling enemies   we’ll come to ourselves   on the rebound   praise the love sacrificial    eat our prayer books   and blot our jotters   with rapacious jealousy   but we’ll see it out    from the beginning   to the very end   all things being square   and on the level    in that moment    we’ll see the truth    that what should happen   will eventually happen   just like I said it could   just like you knew it would

Vigil

Did your words come unbidden, or did you squeeze them from your heart? Did they fall as distant echoes, or were their edges sharp? Do they haunt you even now as you lay there in the dark? Or is it the words you did not say that bit and left their mark? Did you encounter something wicked when you were still quite young? Has it robbed you of your memories and nullified your tongue?

Is it true you fan the ashes to keep those memories alight? Do they help to keep you warm - or wide awake at night? Do they suffocate your mind with a blanket of remorse? Does your every thought betray you – each one a Trojan horse? Was it the same for you last night; and the same the night before? Why do you seek out darkness when it’s darkness you abhor? Did you walk a lonely street perfectly alone; and were you touched by shadows as you made your way home?

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The Other Foot

“I hate liars!” she pronounced, with the emphasis on hate, and I knew in my deepest recess that I had been deceived. I may not be the cleverest of cookies, but I know when I’m having smoke blown up my arse.

“Everybody lies,” I replied evenly, “it’s human nature.”

“Not me – I never lie,” she bristled, now staring fixedly at the TV screen. 

My insides churned; the chords of attraction were striking a dissonant note. My heart was beating out a tattoo against my ribs. The body has its own messenger service – the body knows instinctively. I watched her as she feigned abstract disinterest. Everything I had ever observed about lying was on display. I would know because I had been one of the biggest liars on earth. I knew then that she probably prided herself internally on her ability to pull the wool, but she really was a rank amateur.

I was embarrassed for her. She’d come home with her t-shirt on inside out. She claimed that she must have gone out that way; a likely story. She’d been acting pretty cagey and pulling a lot of late shifts down at the pub. My friends were dropping hints and I recognised the signs. I invented most of the blinds that she was pulling now. I was a past master in the art of deception, but when it happened to me and the shoe was on the other foot - I felt both dirty and betrayed. Ironic you might say - betrayal previously being my stock and trade. The irony was layered because this time I had played it straight - right down the line. I did not deserve this shite - I had been as good as gold this time.

Then I got to thinking about how my previous partners must have felt while I was whoring it around. All the lies I had to tell and the people I let down. I figured this was karma and I deserved all I got. That said, I just couldn’t swallow my pride; so I showed the bitch the door. I had been deceived and I had been betrayed - I felt angry and abused, but within a week I’d swallowed hard and gone crawling back for more.

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Apples

after forty days     and forty nights    I got paroled     on my doctor’s advice      adam was waiting for me      eve was too     we scoffed our forbidden apples with relish      our moment of enlightenment    reeked of corruption      I learned to laugh    I learned to cry      I learned to live for the moment without inhibition

there were many things we never saw      but the moonstone hung in the soft blue       and we saw her face for sure      she was a howling moon      but your friends don’t care how you get your pleasure    they’re just glad you do     sometimes people make us human again       sometimes they just get in the way       

hunters and collectors   try to pin you down   pronounce you weirdo    loner   misanthrope     because people fear difference       and they let it be known       without grace or subtlety      they got me close range      point blank      tagged and bagged      I don’t belong and I never did      that’s something for a poor boy to weigh up      as he raids another orchard

I don’t like to romanticise my sickness     but all the great ones passed this way      reconciled to the difference machine       drunk on rotten apples     brave enough to dream     I dreamed I was dreaming and couldn’t wake up      now would be the time      to give myself a shake       before the wrong side of the bed conspires against me    

they tell me that there is nothing to lose  in the abandonment of self      but no man can give himself away     I heard that in a song      the red haired girl from babylon said I had no soul    I asked her    

what is a soul?

something you don’t have    she replied

poor boy had no dough     he paid his debts with one weighed ounce of solid soul       it was a good trade     or so it seemed      I don’t recall ever missing      something I’ve never seen

I often luxuriate in bouts of dread introspection     eve says I’m bound by my imagination    or lack of     she says if I don’t change I’ll spend my life wallowing in self pity      until the judas goat guns me down      but I’m too old to change       I’m set fast in a pattern      that descends to the abattoir 

 

 

Scarred

He always wore long sleeves, even in the hot weather. Those who noticed speculated that he might be a junkie. The truth was that he was embarrassed by his arms – the pale inner flesh was criss-crossed with scars. He felt that these betrayed his weakness that they showed him up as a self indulgent hysteric. They were made many years before, but were as livid as they ever were – great white gashes that ran across and down his arms like highways.

His self inflicted scars were constant reminders of the boy that he once was – full of sadness and self loathing. Some were punishment scars; others were genuine attempts to end his life. He often felt that his old arms no longer fitted the man he had become – the defect cicatrices were the property of a young man, a young man who had in fact died a long time ago.

He had often tried to forget his youthful manic slashings. His arms would not let him. He had tried to tell himself that the scars were in fact the signs of struggle – a struggle he had won. Had he not prevailed over adversity? Was he not still alive and kicking? It was true. Like the gnarled old bark of an ancient tree his scars were a sign of triumph, but how do you convey that to others? He kept his sleeves rolled down – dreading the looks he received if ever his naked arms were exposed.

Making love with a new partner was a particular minefield. They invariably asked him about the scars – then would begin a lengthy discussion and an inevitable distance – his sanity suspect from there on in. But there was one girl who asked no questions. She kissed his scars and held him close for the longest time. At first he was mortified, but the gesture was so pure it melted his heart. No words were ever spoken of his disfiguring wounds. He felt like the man he wanted to be – she gave him that. Yes, she gave him that and it was precious.

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Scientific Management

deep in the art of confusion   the dissonance between the chord struck    and the note heard    rings awkward in the ear    thoughts come thick as bricks   truculent or tractable   empire blocks of concrete and jelly    some are solid gold and easily held    while others are trojan horses   disgorging disgraceful minions  into the defenceless mind    we inhabit thought in the land of contradiction  what’s in you is around you   what’s around you is only comprehended    through the scrutiny of mirrors

 when I was a young man   I declared my emancipation   with lightning bolts and free speech    and I believed that I was free   because I had no chains and made no claim on others    but the price of that freedom was solitude   I later realised that freedom was only the name of my cage     and that I  had constructed a prison of my thoughts  an intricate lattice of values and recompense    the instruments of scientific management

 

Mescalito

The first hit of the day gives me that edge – a soft fuzzy boundary that cushions me from the agents of chaos. I’m surrounded by idiocy and brute ignorance. I have my blues for breakfast and wonder who they will kill today. They are rounding up all the queers and taking them to the bus depot. They are rolling bums in the alley ways and sacrificing school kids in the classrooms. We are all marked out for adjustment – it’s your innocence that condemns you, not your guilt. After all, everyone shares in the guilt.

I don’t belong here – I never belonged anywhere, but this town ain’t big enough to deviate in – I can barely turn a phrase that isn’t weighed and rejected as madness, or vanity. While wounded congregations pray for consolation I watch the cactus god tear open the sky and angels come pouring out as snowflake confetti to melt like whispers on the ground. Heaven is empty; there will be no resurrection, no day of judgement. There is no final authority – just unending stupidity.

I have my blues for breakfast and cacti for my supper. I walk with Mescalito who tells me that the actions which define us are often difficult to understand, but there is nothing unnatural in this or any other world.

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Manacled

it was bad patter
well out of order
and a bitter repast
for blackened eyes
and broken teeth

I was a pollutant
and filthy to the core
a bi curious creature
and apostle of magical thinking
young enough to hunger still
old enough to know better

those razor edged memories
slash through the 3 am
in procession triumphal
for they have conquered sleep
one day I’ll go straight
but I’ll never sleep again

crack giants
in suicide squadrons
loom large where dreams
once haunted my bedclothes
the chains my forebears fashioned
are branded into my flesh
wrought iron keepsakes
of love meted out
between the blows
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