new poem (of sorts)

I wrote this while high on Oust. Rimbaud never foresaw so much.

THE POET IS A SPY WHOSE COVER IS A FLIMSY ONE AT BEST
for robin easton, who knows

standing for a while
blowing on the wet socks
i'd hung over my door
to get them dry

i realised i was getting high
inhaling the oust i'd sprayed
everywhere to cover up the smell
of whatever smelled so bad

great lungfuls of it going down
preparing for the big blows
that would deliver me my socks.

in an hour i'd be at work.