terminal island

Slope down Onceknown Road, an older morning
bursts outta the grit. Flytipt empires,
laidback wasteland warns there'll be no warnings.
Smiths'-song-street, shuttered supper-suppliers,
where a carpark oak or traffic isle elm
egdeh-combs cyclist's quiff should kerb unhelm,
next to bus-stop ad for new nervous tic.
Path of trundling on, tumultuously
normal, obliquely extraordinary
now flashbacks draw out, razor nostalgic.

Rowdied with 2 hubblydribbling drummers,
crumb comrades of cheeba cheer 'long this road.
Studenty stovepipe house rhythmic slummers
fauve-feng shui'd, tho' precise narrow abode
alt-rawk teen trasheddom PWN'd, I'll pass outrite.
This road tho'. The new potholes are not tite-
lipt, irrecall's due to dumb blip veil, Youth's 
doob loop. Hardcore as froze' scones, partying
nous postponed postpubesecent perma-aging
for nice hol of naive haze, waftaway Truth.

We were 90s grinadiers, lushes lean,
but did svelte sybarights swear off jimjams,
sack jobhunts to trade kugs with a Treen?
Chug ponders peapodded with Grendel's mam?
Lizard daymares, green demonophany
due to nonstoppathon tootenanny?
Piffleflaps! Prosphene Raybans of Blowmance
screen 1st gapyear on the dole for gads all
so legendary they sidestep recall:
the young steal liberty from ignorance.  

Later came grinning nadirs: alcaponed
and algerhissed drift from drumming duo,
all my old mates, to booze and toke alone
on Chronic Island. Years beached like fatsoes
of the ocean, sonar bloaters. The mail
washed up: 'Why did you never find me?' Snail-
mail sans sails, once ale-full, in my own hand,
same grubby starfish that lobbed littoral
letter indicts loner as terminal
islander, tho' I quit Chronic Island.

Just kids, but faked stuff sincerely then, at 1
'least thru fakealong faith in fun. Yet the
unbudding qualms churned, gyres of the undone
unspooled kudzu spinelessness, a kidder
undefinespun. Zhuzhedup Past a plaintive
'sheesh', last niche pastiche, intempestive
taisch, disembodied gulp whose limbs are fibs.
Lightweights in the mist of dawn's roachbow trails
to noon brainjails. Start states sacrosanct, stale.
Tsk, Past teaches how to pish. Sunrise squibs.
 
Even in England, the nite is slitely
more junglish, even inside. Nite's teen knites
genied Swan Vestas like titch Diwali,
not for Bombay bonbons by candlelite
- 'round gummy coffee table bored waitin'
for stoner Noah's dovetail joint (raven's
rectriced raspiration farts 'Cras! Adult-
hood's sulpherous selflessness can whistle!')
Cras was ash till late unexcitable
stardusthood. Asthma, my own stupid fault.