Anyone would have thought he would have died in a gutter by now but, nope, the Smack Troll lives. Apparently the state is still giving him money to get his heroin ... and methadone for the rare times in-between. This is the Number One, far and away, most flagrant and egregious world-wide abuse of the Fundamental Doper Law: if you don't got the scratch, you don't get the blizz. Britain has got the fucking Eternal Buzz going for these creeps and the clinics don't even test for heroin use when dishing out the methadone. WTF?
Some Brits are kind of annoyed at me writing about this but it's what I saw. If I had seen a group of ginger-haired lassies dancing about a field and singing Celtic songs, I would be telling you about that instead. There are many extraordinary places in Scotland and a lot of it is with the strange beauty of a cold and dreary Diane Keaton movie with lots of fog and mist ... but that's not where I was. There was no way of going out to find the Faeries and Magick of Scotland while there was a clear and present danger of a junkie stealing my shit and, make no mistake, a junkie WILL steal your shit.
The Smack Troll is a beady-eyed little beastie and he's from the west coast of Scotland. They're the ones who would go up to the Highland clans to steal sheep ... for sex. Don't ever trust 'em. Pfft.
So the Smack Troll wasn't good for much but he did inspire a poem. This was written months ago but there's a constant debate in me over whether to publish the dark ones.
"Times Gone By"
It did me wrong, the world's not fair
It's a rotten deal and nothing's square.
But these things are known to everyone
and none of us are spared.
Their eyes are dimmed by heroin
they look mostly to the ground
they are whipped and beaten savages
in a lost and lonely town.
They live in dreams of history,
of gloried days and blazing nights
but these thoughts just come to bury them
and they don't even try to fight.
The home I found in this strange land
speaks a language I don't understand.
Just call out to the Mother
and she will take your hand.
She's got money, she's got drugs,
she's got a place for you to live.
And the more you keep on asking,
the more she tries to give.
This woman is not my Mother,
she died so long ago.
But the junkies keep on coming,
saying, "It ain't so. It ain't so."
Some Brits are kind of annoyed at me writing about this but it's what I saw. If I had seen a group of ginger-haired lassies dancing about a field and singing Celtic songs, I would be telling you about that instead. There are many extraordinary places in Scotland and a lot of it is with the strange beauty of a cold and dreary Diane Keaton movie with lots of fog and mist ... but that's not where I was. There was no way of going out to find the Faeries and Magick of Scotland while there was a clear and present danger of a junkie stealing my shit and, make no mistake, a junkie WILL steal your shit.
The Smack Troll is a beady-eyed little beastie and he's from the west coast of Scotland. They're the ones who would go up to the Highland clans to steal sheep ... for sex. Don't ever trust 'em. Pfft.
So the Smack Troll wasn't good for much but he did inspire a poem. This was written months ago but there's a constant debate in me over whether to publish the dark ones.
"Times Gone By"
It did me wrong, the world's not fair
It's a rotten deal and nothing's square.
But these things are known to everyone
and none of us are spared.
Their eyes are dimmed by heroin
they look mostly to the ground
they are whipped and beaten savages
in a lost and lonely town.
They live in dreams of history,
of gloried days and blazing nights
but these thoughts just come to bury them
and they don't even try to fight.
The home I found in this strange land
speaks a language I don't understand.
Just call out to the Mother
and she will take your hand.
She's got money, she's got drugs,
she's got a place for you to live.
And the more you keep on asking,
the more she tries to give.
This woman is not my Mother,
she died so long ago.
But the junkies keep on coming,
saying, "It ain't so. It ain't so."
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