Alchemists vial

He esconces himself with paper and pen,
anticipates flowing like a river of zen
but the end is blunt, so he starts once again

Time ticks on, it’s been more than a while
A stanza or two, and neither worthwhile
Prosaic and turgid, such is his style
Imag'ry effective as an alchemist's vial
So he sits and he stares at the paper defiled
with meaningless words that fail to beguile

Then he realises he's got nothing to say
No wisdom, no love, no pain today
So one last time he tries to try
to write laments for days gone by
But nothing stirs, his eyes still dry
Then merc'fully, his pen doth die

Natural disaster

We’d just left the cinema after the less-rather-than-more enjoyable experience of watching 'Dodgeball'.

"Meh, guess it was alright," I said, trying (and failing) to in intone some enthusiasm for what was basically a bust of an evening.

However if it was sparkling comedy that we had set out for that night, we were not to be disappointed.

Being at that early teen stage when doing things that are bad for you is the pinnacle of cool, we were indulging in a pack of cigarettes we'd purchased from a nearby petrol station. We were sitting on the enclosing wall, smoking, discussing German Idealism (well, not really), when we were interrupted by a slurred yell. We looked up and identified the source of the distraction as some excitable member of the proletariat, sprawled out the window of a nearby parked up taxi. After some opening repartee, the conversation took a more serious turn.

“What the fuck d’you think you're smoking for?”

(“Good point to be fair”, I thought to myself, “it’s not really all that is it?”)

“YEAH! You fucking IDIOTS!” chimed in a fellow taxi-dweller, wrestling his inexplicably over-developed cranium out the window alongside his compatriot's. “You’re smoking near a fuckin’ petrol station... What if you cause a natural disaster!?!”

Instantly recognising the wisdom of these words, we heard several grunts of approval from their fellows within the taxi. Having made their ever-so-valid point and clearly pleased with their work, the two commentators gave each other a quietly satisfied fist-bump, as if to say “Respect to you mate.” “Nah mate, respect to you”. And then with a parting shot ("Wankaaas!!!") and ensuing guffaws, off they trundled.