...and the needle dangling, I fall out

Scrambled thoughts of an addict, convulsing, cursing, begging for that redemption.
The golden mistress beckons through dank alleys.
Trees and cars and man-made structures are no shield for the siren song.
Wringing hands, rubbing necks and itching forearms, I need that fix.
Blood spots on the sleeve.

Oh how my teeth cry out,
My arms plead with me,
The legs I abuse, stand rigid but ready to falter.
Feet stumble on ragged carpets,
My back arches and twists, aches and itches,
Eyes dart back and forth, are you my saviour?

Hand me the bag, there shall be no trouble
I'm too weak to escape you.
Snatching, grabbing, thrusting cash and powdered death from one ***** pair of hands to another
The trade off. I thank you my friend, until tomorrow.

Broken down, malting carpets
Stained mattress, I love you
The pealing paper and rotting stench
I love you too

My hands shake, fix me.

Oh the pleasure. Imagine if we were to erase that pain beforehand. Free me from my past. Euphoria.
.
.
.
..
...and the needle dangling, I fall out
.
.
.
..
...Scrambled thoughts of an addict, convulsing, cursing, begging for that redemption ad infinitum.

The wicked candle of cindered vacations
Invites in the aroma of specials shopping
For school stationery, short-sleeve shirts
And books with which to bury boyhood.

Once scattered now reassembled,
All were dressed like occupants of a warm, neat nest,
Not a plume lent to a rebellious rise.
Barbered and beautiful in balm,
All gleamed gorgeously, save for your humble, sprouting speaker.

Naturally averse to clipping claws
And vehemently opposed to malting manes,
I slipped through the scorching Serengeti to school,
Rugged and sharp in every stride,
Intent only on ******* on the porch of prissy pigeons.

Horrified, they weighed up my Transylvanian talons,
Convinced such manifestations hail from heretic or heathen heritage.
Looking at my lumped locks with gentrified gall,
They whispered low squawks, suspecting lice.

Two metallic hand-held instruments housed in pouches and boxes
Brought my feline rebellion to its guillotined end.

It seems that i return to places and faces
i once saw with different eyes to see the different ways of seeing
London , Krungtheap seem almost alien upon return
from another land
This , i suspect is the essence of travel , slow paces relaxation is the task , is the quest
on , on  , on leaving imprints of emotion in every place
picking up new ways of feeling of believing , of hearing

shedding , malting , unraveling - traveling whilst sitting still with those loves, found in the dimmest of dim , those who shed light on the opaque din that enveloped the ears and melted wax into the drums to clear out the cobwebs of old webs left undone who move in the physical realms
touchdown , landing
meet me at the place where we met , this vibration calls me without a doubt to your home , to your house where i'll turn up at the door with a bottle of wine

you can choose where we dine !

love you like cold wet macadamia hair
i love you like a boot itch
love you like the cucumber antidote
like licking you off my fingers and then sticking them down my throat
i love you like a caged and malting tiger
like i’m using this muzzle
to eat or kiss or both at once
love you like you love the blues
and how I just learned to sing

The symptoms, I can see
What’s hard’s to find the malady
There are problems arising
And the thought so paralyzing
I fit in perfectly
In the drawer of expired batteries
Can’t find a use, but I’m still working
Though I don’t mask well the hurting

There’s no mistaking me
A 6’2” catastrophe
Not the favorite, but I’m up there
Just don’t read my list of errs
I no longer apologize for myself
Though I’m not opposed to some help
These wings are malting, I don’t fly
But I aspire for the sky

Can you see me falling
Though on air seems like I’m walking
The open wounds masquerade as scars
I’m walking strongly, but not that far
Partial truth are still lies
Yet they’re sung lullabies
I’m trying to find truth in me
And am sometimes left out to bleed

The only apparent cure for this
Is to live my life and do my best
But life looks soft, but rubs on rough
And sometimes best is not enough
A prophet for thing in hindsight
A tympanum of unjust and unright
Crawling from the weight of memories
To hope and find the malady

The wicked candle of cindered vacations
Invites in the aroma of specials shopping
For school stationary, short-sleeve shirts
And books with which to bury boyhood.

Once scattered now reassembled,
All were dressed like occupants of a warm, neat nest,
Not a plume lent to a rebellious rise.
Barbered and beautiful in balm,
All gleamed gorgeously, save for your humble, sprouting speaker.

Naturally averse to clipping claws
And vehemently opposed to malting manes,
I slipped through the scorching Serengeti to school,
Rugged and sharp in every stride,
Intent only on ******* on the porch of prissy pigeons.

Horrified, they weighed up my Transylvanian talons,
Convinced such manifestations hail from heretic or heathen heritage.
Looking at my lumped locks with gentrified gall,
They whispered low squawks, suspecting lice.

Two metallic hand-held instruments housed in pouches and boxes
Brought my feline rebellion to its guillotined end.