Fuel

Rum
and Coke. Perfectly drunk.
Woody petrol taste:
sweet and fizzy.

Jesus, we might be
Invincible, sitting atop the playground
fort of our old middle school,
slumped against the beams.

Spines mushy.
Legs sprawled. We swallow
Billy Mavs’ Bourbon
as a chaser:

explosively rich.
Gulp ‘em down. Our pallets
Numbed, this poison yet reeks
of pre-chunder.

We light Flowers, blooming in smoke.
The sky cracks with our bottlecaps. Every star
winks; they’ve a cold gaze, but,
cos we’re drunk, we’re fired-up

like twin backup generators. We’ve
a covenant of not-cool; a tacit contract
to divulge contraband. Our vaults click
open.

Vaporous ghosts slip
into the cold; out pours an unchastened dialect.
Empties thump on the bark chips
as we laugh then cry

then laugh again. Compression and combustion:
we burn til sunrise.

This poem appears in From Arthur’s Seat