Jerusalem

And shows Den the datura he has grown,

Its bell-like blooms white as a wordless page,

With the Salvia Divinorum which

Is Den’s. It’s made clear in Fat Kenny’s pitch

That while they’ll both share the diviner’s sage

The Angels’ Trumpets are for him alone.

“I’ve got a greater tolerance, you see.

I’ll chew the salvia with you then smoke

The other later.” They both masticate

The leaves. “Hold it beneath your tongue, then wait.”

So, leaving the sublingual wad to soak,

Den gulps and swallows apprehensively.

He pales, as if at the approach of some

Fierce, underlying pandemonium.

Time squirms, its measure lost beyond recall

So that how long he’s sat he does not know.

The dismal room has undergone no change

Save that its cluttered details now seem strange

To him, and meanwhile simmering below

His tongue the bitter vegetable ball

Steeps in his spittle, makes green venom run

Into his belly, past the teeth and gums

To curdle in his bloodstream, bowel and bone.

Den writhes and struggles to suppress a moan

As he by subtle increment becomes

Uncomfortable in his own skeleton

And catapults up from his seat to pace

The room, thus to assuage his restlessness

While Kenny shifts his outsized infant bulk

Upon the sofa, clearly in a sulk