The Sunday Song Poem #6 Mel Moore ‘Speed’

speedSweet silver-somersaulting-CGI-Spiderman, it’s nearly 10pm and I haven’t even written the Sunday Song Poem yet! What ever will I do? Hang on a sec, let me just unwrap this glossy club flyer folded into an origami envelope and…WOOOO DAWGY!

Okay, what you just witnessed was a dramatic interpretation of an instance in which a person might be driven into the position of partaking of an illicit substance to make good on its supposed attributes and utilise them for their own gain. But when you take a drug, you gain nothing, the only outcome in this game is to lose. And it’s a game of death. And we all know how that game goes, just ask Bruce Lee. Oh that’s right, you can’t, HE’S DEAD, and he only took an aspirin…

To be serious for a minute, I have nothing against some drugs. The stupidest drugs are obvious, and if you’re idiotic enough to need me to name them, then you probably use them, so I’m too late. Amphetamine was always a borderline drug in my teenage circle of friends – some took it, some passed on it. It’s not a Class A drug in this country, as a matter of fact it was a Class B drug during my experimental years, the same classification as ‘cannabis’. This classification helped make up the flambéed brains of those friends who decided to partake, so well done Mr Drug Czar.

If you’re curious about drugs as a teenager, its always helpful to have an older brother with a hands-on approach to pharmacology with which to inform your own experiments, and ‘our kid’ came a cropper of ‘Whiz’ on a few occasions, most notably during a trip to a festival which did enough to swear me off it forever. Having found their supply had, overnight, transformed from an off-white to a sort of pastel orange colour, my brother and his friends, having no other pick-me-ups in their luggage that they had managed to smuggle through counterculture customs decided to carry on regardless. During the space of the three day festival my brother began to intermittently see himself projected on the big screen either side of the main stage, believe he was being stalked almost constantly, for 72 hours, by the boyfriend of a girl he danced in the proximity-of  at the Dance Tent, and one night leapt into his own tent with flick knife primed in an attempt to perforate his best friend. He was stopped only by his flowing locks being snagged in the zip of the tent’s entrance.

That was my mind made up. “Dance Tent’? No thanks.

When he returned, he regaled me wide eyed with his version of the story while his girlfriend stood miming behind him, rolling her forefinger in a circle at her temple in the international sign of lunacy, and while still aswim in this psychosis, his second course of action, after having told me he had been prevented from stabbing his best friend by his hair becoming entangled in a tent’s zip…was to shave his head.

The sun had burnt the skin of his scalp exposed by his parting down the centre of his head, leaving him with a fascinating cranial approximation of an arse crack once his locks were shorn off.

Anyway, luckily my brother took one for the team, but what if you don’t have a brother fortunate enough to ingest a particularly nasty batch of speed over a three day period and attempt to murder his best friend? Well, if my story hasn’t done it for you too, listen to Mel Moore’s damning indictment of the evils of amphetamine.

Chester Whelks

Chester Whelks

Chester Whelks is a peripheral figure on the fringes of existence. Predominantly bothering the local music scene of his native Manchester, England, he has a very finely attuned Justice-button, and knows how to call a spade a ‘Multi-Purpose Murder/Concealment Device’.

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