We arrive at the club, it’s busy down here
Though we missed their band do their gig.
Small stage is vacant, there’s jiving down here
As the matted-haired DJ spins a trippy tune.
On a pillar upfront we see a sign read:
“No prohibited substances on these premises.”
You eye me and grin a crocodile grin,
Your nose smells a pleasant contradiction.
We walk round the rear and hear muffled sounds,
I pop my head round the backstage door
And scan a box room painted vivid sky blue,
Filled to the brim with thick smoky clouds.
More heads in here than out there in the club –
Band members, the manager and toady hangers on.
‘Come in where you been,’ bawls Stan our man,
He wears a tracky top, woolly hat and fat cigar.
‘Sorry we late, got held up at the spot.’
‘No worries,’ he replies, our fists bump the touch.
The aromatic clouds exudes different scents,
Spudders, Northern Lights, Sticky Thai, fat cigar.
You’re passed a reefer and hold it in a V,
From a skinhead lay cabbaged in a beige sofa seat –
He said he tasted chalk, the bifter, beer, weed.
His pupils are massive, his tongue lick his cheeks.
The reefer he passed you, it doesn’t smell right.
I scratch my head and whiff the chemical.
The skinhead is pinned back in the beige sofa seat;
Lights out now in this noisy jamboree.
I nudge you with my elbow, it’s time for us to leave,
‘Come on let’s chip and put that reefer to sleep.’
‘Stan we getting off,’ I say –
Bump the fists of the coterie.
And riding back North in your black Vitara jeep,
I throw away our pass marked 23/10 33.