Monkey Dust, by Jonathan Jones

People who take the drug often believe that they are being chased and attack those around them. Steven Rust, a paramedic, said it was difficult to treat the patients. “There is no regular pattern of behaviour and there is a psychosis of being paranoid, mixed in with all that and superhuman strength in some cases, and they have no fear of doing anything,” he said. There was a comment from a colleague who said he drove through Stoke-on-Trent a couple of nights ago and it was like a scene from the Night of the Living Dead . . . One homeless addict said that 90 per cent of the people she knew “were on the dust”.

The Times, August 11th 2018

 

It does you no good to plead for your life.
The very heart of England; you understand.
Left for dead. No jobs, no pubs quoting Philip Larkin.
No time to ponder natural selection.
Just the statue of Old Josiah Wedgwood
outside the North Stafford hotel. People chain
smoking to have hope having no hope,
because England makes you feel so superhuman,
so invincible. Amino acids into protein, enzymes
pumped on iron, genes in clay. White
rabbits pulled like powder from their pockets
where the roof caved in. Ingested intraveneously
so many flags that fill such rainy skies with terraces.
It means nothing to say things were different in my day.
Car stereo reports life goes on,
much the same.

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