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More poems by Roddy LumsdenRoddy Lumsden | Print this page.Print | View and Write CommentsComments | Books by Roddy LumsdenBooks by Roddy Lumsden

Acid

Roddy Lumsden

"She was right. I had to find something new. 
There was only one thing for it."

My mother told it straight, London will finish you off,
and I'd heard what Doctor Johnson said, When a man is tired 
of London, he is tired of life, but I'd been tired of life

for fourteen years; Scotland, never thoroughly enlightened, 
was gathering back its clutch of medieval wonts
and lately there had been what my doctors called a pica

(like a pregnant woman's craving to eat Twix with piccalilli
or chunks of crunchy sea-coal): I'd been guzzling vinegar,
tipping it on everything, falling for women who were 

beautifully unsuitable, and hiding up wynds off the Cowgate
with a pokeful of hot chips drenched in the sacred stuff
and wrapped in the latest, not last, edition of The Sunday Post

where I read that in London they had found a Chardonnay
with a bouquet of vine leaves and bloomed skins, a taste
of grapes and no finish whatsoever, which clinched the deal.


Anonymous submission.

Added: 2 Apr 2003 | Last Read: 19 Jul 2018 9:20 PM | Viewed: 4186 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/8150/ | Viewed on 19 July 2018.
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