On the long road home from the jury to our own
I spot past one, two, three Others - none ours -
but it's my intravenous fuel that makes our veins writhe.
They could have sliced the ears right from
my hot little dog-head stuck out the car
but the guilt is plain as any nose and they're shit scared.
I think their gas tastes how the slums should smell
and they're all bred the same way! But it's my gas
that bleeds from the chassis, our leaking strong-body.
We churn the horizon out behind - like
a bigot's drive for cliché in the juror's room - as if
it never had the right to be that impending or straight.
I call them all real big drinkers. But it's only
you guys I met, the road this car meets, the fumes they inhale.
Sam Buchan-Watts graduated from Goldsmiths College in 2010, and is a co-editor of Clinic.