a round brown shiny mark had been a piece
of my right foot for as long as I could remember;
it was cut from me, near painlessly, just
a faint ache a day later, but still
I wasn't up to long, long walks so
wasn't it typical of that fucking twat
one-eyed stevie to lead us on a circular tour
of amsterdam's cheaper places for a pack of idiots to crash
we stayed in the one we'd seen first, an hour of,
as they say, valuable drinking time gone forever
through spliffs, beers, fatfood and hysterical bonhomie that
half-blind bastard niggles at me, a whine at my side finding
me at each coffeeshop table, reminding
me why I don't like it when there are no women around to disapprove
of the kind of jockeying joshing that serves as cover for
his baiting, but
it's a stag weekend so the only woman
is the one on stage being fucked by
some dumb stud (bored, visibly) and sliding, greasily,
a banana into her meatily bald vagina, and handing it
to the dirtiest man in our pranking band;
he eats
with something like glee on the face
I next see gurning as
I smoke the only rock
of crack I'll ever touch
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