Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to...


Two books from Oliver Nejad

Coffee and Cigarettes


In murky pleasure, fingers rest.

Cradling a cigarette – hand rolled,

Wrinkled raw.


Pressed between lip, and the grimace of youth

As gentle licks of grey

Obscure his vision’s corner,



As newborn temporary pleasure,

Living short its life

To the car horn muse.

Soon finds itself in a sunken pit

Face down,

Ground in between battlements.


On nicotine fuelled days

Where dull, heavy musk hangs malignant.

He sits.


And - raising a cup of crude

To toast the capital bullshit passing -

He peers over near pressed vessel,

Straining through a blur of steam.







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At fifteen, our minds danced on the cathedral square.

We would high, theorise and debate the resonance,  

The mastery of Orwell, and despite the confines of the syllabus

We made the best of what we had.

We read Kerouac, sipping a lovely little number by the name of ’Tango’.

An odd name for a vineyard…

Then we would retire

To a red bull can filled with ash, dim  lighting,

Roger Waters murmuring beneath the floor.

And ask our closest to kindly pass our bongs and slippers.


And in a moment we were kings,

Surveying the plains of literature with the scrutiny of ownership.

We were the conquistadors, the pirates of our own education,

Taking what we wanted.

As we feasted, danced the Grecian dances and lay,

In comfort, we felt to be the masters of time.

The governors of our own existence.


Then, when the dust we spat in our merry ramble settled,

We picked our wasting legs and planting ourselves afoot.

The sun had left, and so we braved the fierceness of the night,

And left in search of our beds.






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