Скачать или смотреть "Flower Pot" from John Puckett's "Kaleidoscope Groove".

The Story of “Flower Pot”
London, 1967
Nicky Knight, international pop sensation and reluctant darling of the tabloids, had carved out a secret Eden atop his Marylebone townhouse. Nestled in the heart of central London’s elegance, his rooftop garden was no ordinary retreat of lavender, wisteria, or climbing hydrangea. No, this was a sanctuary of rebellion, blooming with the lush, serrated foliage of Cannabis sativa, swaying like the green banners of a counterculture uprising.
After long nights recording at nearby Olympic Studios, where tape reels spun like galaxies and soundwaves bent to his will, or when the weight of fame pressed too heavily on his shoulders, Nicky would ascend to his rooftop refuge. Up there, time softened. The city’s clamor dissolved into a distant hum. The garden became his cathedral.
He moved among the plants with reverence, a high priest in denim and velvet, whispering to them as if they held secrets no lyric could capture. His fingers brushed their velvety leaves, and he misted them gently with water from a chipped ceramic jug, its glaze cracked like the façade he wore in public. The buds, thick and tinged with deep purples and electric greens, glistened under the sun like gemstones, or under the moon like sacred relics unearthed from a forgotten ritual, pulsing softly with ancient light.
When the plants reached their peak, Nicky harvested them with the precision of a craftsman and the soul of a poet. He rolled slender joints with practiced ease, lighting them with a silver Zippo engraved with his initials, his own torch of Prometheus, stolen from Olympus and sparked in defiance.
Most evenings, he smoked alone on his stoner’s perch, gazing out at the London skyline as twilight painted the rooftops in hues of amber, indigo, and quiet melancholy.
When not touring, the city’s nightlife beckoned. Jam sessions at the Scotch of St. James, The Marquee, Blaises, places where the air was thick with music and myth. Afterward, he’d climb the narrow staircase to his rooftop haven, sometimes with a trusted friend or two, or three, to share in the ritual beneath the stars.
He frequented Carnaby Street, too, slipping into boutiques like a shadow, always mindful of discretion. Fame had its price, and the threat loomed large.
Officer Norman Pilcher, the scourge of swinging London, was making headlines with his theatrical drug busts and flair for disguise. Rumor had it he once posed as a postman, delivering handcuffs instead of letters. Nicky remained unfazed. He believed his rooftop was just high enough to keep the law’s gaze at bay.
Often, while entertaining guests, he’d grin and declare, lighter in hand, “Time to light the torch upon Mount Olympus!”, earning amused chuckles, eye-rolls, and the occasional mock bow, as if he were some divine emissary of smoke and serenity.
Living high, both literally and figuratively, Nicky believed he was untouchable. In a world teetering between revolution and repression, he saw himself not as a fugitive, but as a quiet rebel. A cultivator of beauty. A dreamer above the smog. In his private place “where happiness grows..oh yeah!"
John Puckett- September 2025