The Secret Stead is the pen name of a UK-based writer and
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Daniel lights the end
of a blunt
the day's been hard
sitting home all day long
waiting
for his friend King Darius
to light up his bong
the old man feels like he's in the lion's den
contemplating his end
but then
he remembers he's Daniel
the prophet who shut the mouth of lions
Daniel is now an iron lion
lying on his mattress of Zion
which'll be creaking and groaning before long,
he gives up, he can't give it up,
sleep won't come like a hard-on
unless he smokes the fucking blunt;
he has to stay calm,
else he'll do someone some harm,
some neighbour moans about the smell,
who gives a fuck what heaven smells like
when you're in hell?
they check that neighbour
have devices to make him behave
when he wails like a cat,
they have a laugh over his search history
serves the fucker right
for calling the police on 'em
at the drop of a hat;
he ain't aggressive, and he ain't no bully,
sometimes King Darius screams,
but he just bruises easy,
Daniel gets a buzzy, energetic feel
must be from the tobacco wrap,
he missed quite a few minutes
of his present moment, dwelling
on his past, but the weed
is starting to hit at last;
so he can miss more of his present moments
to the past
but there's still a part of him
inside that can't be arsed
to take the easy way out,
he knows Daniel means
God is my judge
some voice in his head
tries to shout,
so he bumsucks on the roach,
and just before his senses
abandon God
he smiles, his rod looks huge
it's now a log;
it's floating down the river
of Jordan to the holy land,
he is the Messiah
resurrected and risen
from the cave of an elastic band
peering through his track pants,
he looks down in joy
and waves a hand
to some image only he can see,
breaks free and feels absurd,
sniffs at the pungent air:
smells the kid dealer
who sits on the next steps,
burning his bowl of medicinal herb;
all of twenty-three but looking seventeen
provides home delivery
with free gifts inbetween
so Daniel don't need to go out at all,
it comes to his feet off the street
all it takes is a call
to King Darius who knows
the store keeper
from his beat;
face of an angel
backside of a demon
acne stained mouth
like it's on Amphetamine,
or so he heard it said
from another prophet next door,
a little Oliver,
who swallows your bread
and in the next minute asks you for more
Daniel thinks then
wouldn't mind his bowl burning
right here in this den--
then, and then,
what was he thinking?
he remembers the gossip
of the choking and the vomit
and the blood in his urine;
Daniel takes another hit
makes it last a little bit,
the head's on a down,
so he better not quit;
but King Darius will come
and he'll rise up again,
boy's shit hot, he knows it, an' all,
his shit's expensive, too
and that don't much enthrall,
and slim, some days
he shits the munchies so much--
it blocks the bowl,
you just can't flush that fucking hole,
and smoking red hot on his back
gets him too loose
he's already got the noose
hanging off his cheek crack,
but Daniel has him shave his arse,
he likes to fuck a vacant lot,
there's no God in that hour
in whom he trusts,
but the Lord of the almighty pot,
indecent what it costs
but what's he got?
he trusts
in the power
of a deep hard thrust
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down the throat,
back to back in each other's smoke,
there's no wilt
when you're high off the smoke,
there's no guilt
when it's the fault of the smoke,
his man, not God, will judge Daniel
and find him innocent
as the King must
for they're both in the same plot of dust;
King Darius will come and release
old man Daniel in this den,
and it starts tomorrow all over
the same shit again
Published 3 May, 2026
