King of the Smoke Room


“The entry fee
is your individuality,
your mind’s originality,
your best chance at fertility,
and the sharpness of your memories.”

It seems quite expensive to me,
but in this room
“unity” is just a euphemism
for homogeneity,
as everyone drifts
vaguely referencing a deity
who they don’t know,
but Bob* did.

*Everyone is somehow
on first-name-terms with Marley,
despite never having heard
of the word “Rastafari”.

So I forfeit my mind’s colours into the bucket,
and accept in their place
a wristband with “fuck it”
written on in shitty Sharpie.

What a motto.

I walk away
from the bucket of sacrificed grace,
into a room of people
who know each other by face
but not heart,
and who think
that the smoke
(not the bucket)
holds art.

I walk through
a monotony of fumes
and rich white kids
who don’t understand
their own costumes.

I am only here to visit.

The king of the room
wears a crown on his head
that everyone thinks is pure gold;
the reality is
it’s a kid’s paper hat,
worth a couple of cents
or a shitload of sense,
depending on how it is sold.

Visiting hours are over
so I slip away unseen,
and the beauty in the bucket
that I pass at the door
is the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.

Pictured: Nick Cave in his music video for ‘Fifteen Feet of Pure White Snow’