Dealers Houses

Dealers houses are a weird purgatory
A temporary autonomous zone
Were different rules apply

I remember so many times, not that long ago
Following friends into those twilight lands
Drifiting slowly into dimly lit rooms in Stoke and Greenbank and Mutley and Tavistock and Shoreditch and Devonport and Mosside and Mannamead

Blank cream walls
Artex encrusted ceilings
Decorations few and predictable:
- Scarface movie poster large
- Johhny depp film most
- Long thin poster of a woman bending to get beer from the bottom shelf of a fridge exposing her thong

Manic goblins jerk furiously before the xbox screen while the dealer talks big and pretends he’s a player
Dropping hints about grands and collectives and Colombian connections
While he sells your kid friend cheap amateur hash or moist shit weed

His depressed friend sits like a installation shaman, burbling pseudointellectual madness
Conjoing Grecian prefix to latinate root, norman French to Japanese
Stupid theories cite fight club and fear and loathing endlessly
- Wikipedia baudrillard and Wittgenstein the only support references
While on the shelves are intellectual books with their spines unbroken

They try and convince you want to buy their pills, telling you their a bit speedy, like the uninspiring phrase ‘a bit speedy’ is a Saatchi and bloody Saatchi advertising slogan
Tell you about a cool squat party and you leave and as you wander down the street your friends and you laugh about broken and mad the dealer and his friends are

While you wonder quietly if your friends know they’re becoming them