Gummy Bears

Buddha had started to resemble his namesake. He had grown fat – positively rotund. Thirty odd years of tweaking had made him thin as a rake, but when he gave it up he blossomed into a beach ball. He’d had a triple bypass. Three decades of amphetamine abuse had taken its toll on his heart. He no longer partook of the old whizz. He no longer smoked – anything. He did, however, find other diversions.

“I’ve seen the future Johnny Boy and it’s in edibles.”

“Inedibles?”

“Ha fuckin’ ha. You’ll see. Every cunt will be doin’ it. Nae mair noxious fumes and carcinogens; just pure THC delight.”

“Is that what’s in them?”

“Aye, that and all the other cannabinoids. You lose most of them when ye smoke it. This way it all reaches yer brain pan and it stays there much longer.”

“Is that them? They look like sweets.”

“They are sweets; pure hash oil preserved in gelatine. They even have different flavours.”

“What do you call them then?”

“These are gummy bears.”

“Strong?”

“There’s a quarter of a gram in each. That’s enough to get ye well stoned, but two of them will fuck you up nicely.”

“I’ll have two then.”

He was right. I was pretty fucked up. I had a strawberry and an orange. I could still taste the oil though. It clung to my teeth for a bit. It wasn’t long before Buddha proffered me two more. I wolfed them down with a cup of chai. Our conversation was rambling and silly. We giggled like school boys as we enthused over the records we played. The music sounded awesome. Buddha got all philosophical. He said his brush with mortality had affected his outlook.

“Did ye ever turn yer heid a certain way and catch a glimpse of the universe spinning round ye an’ suddenly realise that you are at the centre of it all?”

“Naw.”

“Well you should turn yer heid mair often then.”

“I think I feel that tee hee hee Buddha. I’m nearly trippin’.”

“Good innit?”

“Fuckin’ right.”

“Want another?”

“Fuckin’ right.”

I don’t know what time I eventually went to bed, but I woke up with the munchies. I tip toed past Buddha’s room – so as not to wake him up – and headed for the kitchen in search of biscuits. Buddha was right into that health food lark. There was all sorts in his cupboards; things like wheatgrass powder, blue algae and sphagnum moss. There were no biscuits, but I found a tray of chocolate brownies in the fridge. I scoffed three or four of the wee brownies with a glass of milk. It was only when I had finished my sugary repast that I tasted the by now familiar oily residue on my teeth. Shit, the brownies were some of Buddha’s ‘edibles’.

I tried to sleep, but was roused from my slumbers by a loud clanging – like the old fire engines made. It took me a moment to ascertain that the source was in my head. I was hallucinating wildly and could see luminous air molecules cavort and wriggle in the dark. Quite suddenly a Blueband margarine tub materialised in my head. I could see it, but can’t explain how, because it was inside my head. Then the margarine tub vibrated a little before flipping over onto its side. It wasn’t empty. Batman was in there and he sprang out to smashed my brain with a giant mallet. My whole body convulsed with the blow. Batman then settled back into the margarine tub and it flipped back onto its base. A moment later it happened again. Batman was giving my brain a proper pounding.

This went on for like two hundred years before Batman’s blows grew softer as he faded off and I found myself free falling through space towards the beautiful blue planet Earth. I was enjoying the view and the sensation of gently falling when I was joined by this guy who was also falling.

“I bring a message from your sponsor.” He said.

“I recognise you.” I said.

“You’re tuning into the wrong channel.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Yes you do.”

“Who are you?”

“You know me. You’ve always known me.”

“Go away.”

“Don’t you want to know?”

“Know what?”

“Why you are here?”

“Why am I here?”

“We sent for you.”

“Who are you?”

“Good question. Who do you think I am?”

“How would I know?”

“I’m a messenger.”

“Aye, you said.”

“I bring a message from your sponsor.”

“I’m tuning into the wrong channel.”

“Yes.”

“What does that mean?”

“Look within.”

I looked within. The whole universe was in there. I was in there too. Then he zapped me; twenty million volts coursed through me and everything that ever was followed. I understood it all. From the big bang to the end of time; it was all laid out before me. In the beginning were the words and the words were lights, camera, action! The whole show was specifically designed for me, for this moment. I turned my head a certain way and caught a glimpse of the universe turning around me. I was at the centre of everything and everything was at the centre of me. I couldn’t wait to tell Buddha.

“I saw Jesus!”

“Really?”

I explained the whole trip to him. I was calling it a vision. He laughed uproariously when I told him about the brownies. Apparently there was a lot of hash oil in the brownies. I told him about Batman and the message from my sponsor. I related the whole experience as best I could. There was much to tell – there was everything in my story. It was the story of everything.

“You’ve had a revelation Johnny, an epiphany.”

“I talked to Jesus.”

“Are ye sure?”

“Who else could it be?”

“Anybody.”

“It wasn’t just anybody. It was Jesus.”

“Did he say he was Jesus?”

“Naw, but I recognised him.”

“You’re making the classic mistake Johnny Boy. You’re focussed on the messenger, not the message.”

“What was the message?”

“Don’t ask me. It was your vision. It was your message.”

“I don’t know. There was so much. I saw everything.”

“That’s yer message then – everything. What else would it be?”

My vision haunted me for months. I was convinced I met Jesus. Buddha just laughed at that, but every time I thought about Jesus I cried. I wanted to talk to people about it. Buddha advised me not to. I admit I made an arse of myself a few times trying to convey everything to everybody. Eventually the immediacy of it faded and so did some of the details, but something special had happened to me. Buddha agreed with me there. He said I should meditate on it. He suggested I eat some more brownies since that seemed to be my spiritual catalyst. I declined. I simply was not ready for more of everything, but I had some more gummy bears just the same.

Green Mind

Roll me a fat one

My brand of choice

God’s own medicine

Something I can use

To feel the touch

Of a higher power

There is one great truth

There is one great lie

No contradictions here

I embrace them both

Within my green mind

.

Ferrets

I thought I’d made a friend

I made more than a friend

I made a fucking enemy

I wish she’d pack her bags

And return to her ferret factory

I don’t need the hassle

Of an extra arsehole

It’s hard enough

Managing my own

She made a scene

But I really don’t mind

I could still have her any time

.

mumbo jumbo

I got the hee haw

from your mumbo jumbo

you’re using words

you don’t understand

you like to pose as a holy roller

but I saw you sneaking home

with your knickers in your bag

hypocrisy is the mother of corruption

and prejudice is her favoured child

but you can afford it

after all it cost you nothing

but your self respect

and mine

.

East Of Leven

I could dae this of my own accord you know. I dinnae need the spike, the earmuffs and the diamond collar. I do awright oan ma ane. I kin write awright if ah kin just get some sleep! Men of a certain age, especially those of the manic-depressive persuasion, often find it difficult tae sleep. Loads of pent up emotion an’ barely supressed anger keeps them awake at night. You’ll find that many men of a certain age carry luggage heavy wi pent up emotion an’ barely supressed anger; it’s the lack of fuckin’ sleep that does it.

I’m in an awfy fix. I’m in Scoonie, East of Leven; Scotland’s ane Anus Mundie. I came here tae get away from it all. Fuckin’ well succeeded tae – I’m miles away from anything. This place was designated as pointless back in 1962 and filed under forgotten; do not resuscitate. Some part of me has died here. There is some portion of Scoonie, East of Leven, that shall forever remain Buddha in an unmarked grave.

Brought Johnny. Fat lotta use he is. All he talks about are burds; burds he’s shagged and burds he wants tae shag. He’s goat it bad that yin. He was gifted wi a beautiful intellect which resides in the glans of his penis. I love the guy tae death, but one day that cock o’ his will lead him into mair than temptation. I told him tae be meagre wi his wants, but on that score he’s the greediest bastard a’ ever met.

We’re no exactly oan holiday here. This is no gentleman’s junket. We’re on the lam. No fi the law or that, but fi our friends. Our pals want a pound of our flesh. Some depressing tale involving supposed MDMA tablets and an alleged horse tranquiliser. A very ugly story, but all too common in today’s marketplace. We were merely intermediaries in this carfuffle, but since the primary agents had absconded wi the loot, we were held by many tae be responsible. Stupid bastards. To a man they are all stupid bastards and the stupid like to weigh in mob handed. The mob that’s after us is comprises of some unsavoury characters who’d just as soon knife you as kick ye in the head when yer down. We’re running from a lynching – there’s nothing the stupid love more than a good lynching. They’ll never find us in Scoonie though. God cudnae find us in Scoonie.

I brought my stash, of course, but it’s running low an’ I’m rationing the whizz. Give Johnny his due he’s been out in Leven every day hustling the few remaining angles, but maybe he’s just hunting fur burds. It’s been three weeks since he got laid last and he’s getting kinda antsy. That testosterone banks up and swamps the brain ye know. Many are the wondrous feats of stupidity perpetrated by horny men.

“You know trying to find a trick on the street is too much like hard work. You want to open an oaffice.”

“Why an office?”

“If you had an oaffice the tricks would come tae you.”

“Why?”

“Tae buy your services of course”

“And what are my services?”

“You’ll be relieving them of their cash.”

“Just like that?”

“Just a little mind you, no enough tae send naebody tae the polis.”

“Ye’ll have tae be specific Buud – what would I be selling?”

“Dreams Johnny Boy – dreams.”

“Fan fuckin tastic Buddha – wid you get tae the point?”

“A raffle – a lottery, anything that costs us nowt to organise and the punter only a few coppers tae play. We can use the laptop tae design the necessary and print them off in the site office.”

“Won’t they be suspicious at the office?”

“We’ll wait till they’ve gone hame – I have the key right here.”

“That’s a screwdriver.”

“It’s a key in the right hands.”

“What are we raffling Buddha?”

“A luxury caravan – fur Save The Children.”

“So we are going to run a fake raffle no one will ever win. Won’t people be pissed when they find out?”

“They never will. Millions of people dae the lottery every day and not one of them realises that they were ripped off. I’ve done the maths Johnny and statistically speaking yer odds of winnin’ are about the same if ye buy a ticket or not. No-one seriously expects tae win the lottery anyway. They dae it just in case; people are playing ‘cause it fuels the old pipe dreams for a wee while. They get to imagine what they would spend it on if they did win; an entirely vicarious thrill costing a mere pound.”

“Looking at it that way people are pretty stupid., eh?”

“The stupid ones are, but the rest are just greedy. Never make the mistake of thinking yer trick is stupid Johnny, never underestimate anybody. If you find a trick who is genuinely stupid – walk away. Have nae dealings wi the stupid whatsoever.”

“Surely they are the easiest tricks?”

“Too easy, but unpredictable. You never know how the stupid will react to being made a cunt of Johnny. The prisons are full of stupid fuckers who killed for nae apparent reason. Nothing is more dangerous than brute ignorance and conscientious stupidity. Have no dealings whatsoever with the stupid Johnny. If you huv a stupid friend – boot him intae touch. If ye huv stupid customers – get rid of them before they get ye busted; I guarantee ye that they tell every cunt they meet everything they know about you. No drug, not even booze, causes so much strife. If we're looking for the source of our fuckin’ woes, we shouldnae be testin’ folk for drugs, we should be testin’ them for stupidity. There’s nae fuckin’ rehab fur the stupid – they’re always fuckin’ stupid and that’s a fact. What was it Oscar Wilde said? ‘There is no sin but stupidity’ I reckon he was spot on; stupidity is the route of all evil.”

“We can all be stupid at times Buddha – people make mistakes.”

“I agree, but that’s no whit am talking about. I’m talking about the terminally stupid – the ones who cannae learn fi their mistakes; because they were right to make them and would do it again tomorrow for the same inane, stupid reasons they did it today. I’m serious Johnny – you let the stupid into your life and chaos ensues. That’s enough philosophy fur one day – fire up the laptop an’ let’s get tae work.”

Epilogue

I wish Johnny had listened to me. Perhaps I should have placed more emphasis on the stupid, but Johnny found he was willing tae indulge stupidity if it came wi a pretty face. That peccadillo was to cost him dearly one day, but that’s another story and I’m no the man tae tell it. Creativity being the cessation of stupidity our raffle scheme worked out well. We only sold a coupla hundred tickets, but that raised enough to dig us oot a hole and still have some change for beer. All’s well that ends well they say – except this is no the end, but the beginning.

.

Holy Cow

the ritual of disclosure

that striptease of discovery

makes liars of us all

yet those forgeries of love

and softly spoken fables

soon become our sacred cows

Little Porkies

she took a piece
delicious little tart
I spun her some yarn
on the off chance
she still harboured
any romantic illusions
some tired old cliché
from the top shelf
an awkward confection
of fractured truths
and outright posture
I can sell snow
I know my face
is my best device
I don’t rehearse
I do it alfresco
but it all joins up
in the ancient ritual
and no-one gets hurt
so there’s no crime committed
.

Meat On The Table

what can I say?
I needed the brass
we can argue the ethics
it won’t put meat on the table
I’d steal for my own
I’d probably kill
too raw for you?
so what would you do
there in my shoes?
.

Ghosts In The Blood

you got ghosts in your blood   you best get you some stony   I got the fear on  roll me one too    I’m bound to get lucky   I’m prepared to die trying   you can fetch me solace   from another man’s gutter   because I’m headed home   where there will be a welcome   or a maybe just a lynching   they might have forgotten   I hope they’ve forgiven   what’s done is done   and I paid my dues 

I don’t believe in resurrections    or in tearful reconciliations    the past is gone forever    ghosts take shape in its shade    and my head is haunted    with that fearful geometry    and the friends undone    by time and tide   you take your best shot   and maybe another   you might win some    but you’ll likely lose more   no-one passes this way     unless they pay the toll

The Final Straw

I lost my spit and shine

And the all weather finish

That had served me so well

Against the inclement

I had been less than diligent

With my applications

You might call me lazy

But I was tired of the front

And dropped my guard

The signature of a chump

I took the blows due me

And maybe more besides

But there’s always a final straw

An injury that cannot be borne

Often it’s a concealed blade

Nestled in the hand of a friend

I’d be a hypocrite to complain

My dabs were all over that instrument

The blood on my hands was not my own

My complicity was beyond all reasonable doubt

.

The Boy Who Wept

His name was Calum Fraser and he was seventeen, though none of us knew this at the time. The folk on the ward just referred to him as the boy who cries. Calum cried a lot – no, Calum wept a lot. You might say he was inconsolable, but I don’t remember anyone actually trying to console him. It was heart rending and it was embarrassing. So we did our best to ignore him. I thought about going to him once or twice. To put my arm around him and ask him what was wrong, but I never did. I always figured he had lost someone. You only grieve like that when you have lost someone.

Poor Calum. He wept both night and day. I know because he slept in my dorm and kept me awake with his sobbing. One night I lost the rag and told him that if he did not shut up I’d give him something to cry about. I felt instant shame. Those words shame me still. He stopped crying a few days later when he fashioned a noose from a bed sheet and hung himself in a toilet cubicle.

It must have taken a determined effort to hang himself on his knees like that. He was still kneeling in the doorway of the cubicle when I found him; the improvised noose held him upright in cruel mockery of prayer. His had been a gruesome death, a violent death, the bulging eyes and bloated tongue attested to that. I hoped to God that he’d found some peace and that death had finally dried his tears.

.

Power

Most people are lost

In power games

Of their own devising

Ensnared in the he said/she said

They endorse misery and conflict

For all of their lives

But it’s hard to hold your head high

When you’re swimming in shit

And that’s the greatest threat

To your personal freedom

Not that some unseen hand

Takes away your power through force

But that you give it away freely

As a matter of course

.