By the pit of a black hole. That's how it'll happen. By the flick of a lighter, and a burnt up spoon tucked away in the corner. A half ass attempt to be discreet. It'll sit there. Staring at you, haunting you, taunting your very existence. By the death of a friend you called your family. A stupid, avoidable death at the hand of dirty needle. That's how it'll happen. You'll look up one day, at the bottom of a hole you can't remember falling into. You'll climb, and climb, clawing your way to the top. Desperately slipping back down every time you make headway. It's a hopelessly dark place. It's the kind of place that stays with you forever. Even if you're lucky enough to claw your way out for good. It's the kind of place that leaves you void of love. It's a place for broken down souls. For desperate addicts turning tricks just to get their fix. You'll find yourself there, alone. Cold. You'll find yourself wishing it all back. Wishing you never took that one little hit, never sniffed that innocent little line. You'll hate yourself for thinking just this one time, because you knew it was a lie the second it crossed your mind. You just didn't want to believe it. It was a choice. Falling to the bottom of this hole. You made it the second you chose to say yes that very first time. It was the moment you sold your soul to the devil. A signature scribbled half heartedly on a piece of charred up tinfoil. It was a choice, and you knew you were making it. It's the worst part about being this kind of addict. You know you'll die eventually. Just like that friend you called your family, but nothing is enough to make you stop. The opiates leave you hollow. A shell of a person that used to love. You'll find yourself so empty. You don't care about your family, or those friends still around that don't fuck with what you're doing. You can remember a time when you were so close to them. So different. Still an addict, but just circling the rim of that hole you're in now. You weren't addicted to those drugs, but you were on your way. It was those friends that kept you in the light. That kept you from falling into those harder drugs. They were a lifeline. A silver string hanging from the stars. You held on for so long. Every time you looked down you got so scared. It was a long way to the bottom, but you had scissors in your hand the whole time you were hanging on. At a certain point, you got weak, and cut that silver cord. You fell so far down, and at the bottom of that hole, sitting in the corner to comfort you, a burnt up soon and a white bic lighter. You traded in your lifeline. It was no longer your friends that could bring you back to the light. It was a bag of tar, and a silver spoon. It was a choice, and when the day comes when you say you're getting clean, you'll reach for the hands that used to be there. Out spread, patiently hanging there waiting for you to grab them, and they won't be there.
Milk the Aimlessness
Milk the Hopelessness
Milk All the Profits
That can be made
Milk the Fanaticism
Milk the Hate
Milk all the Distorted Interpretations
Like a Cult.
But there ain't no Milk
For the babies to drink
So, let's milk the Opium Poppy
To cope with
of laying in a field
of wild poppies.
sweet as sugar.
softer than silk.
as I slowly
drift up high
Where the moon
guarding the heavens.
I will kneel
to hang me
as one of her
stars in the sky.
I have been seduced down a wormhole by the cheerful insanity of addiction. My brain, pleasure sensors within, flicker with half words unsaid while ticker taping away silently jerkingly forward without memory. I can feel my blood as venom, as desert crude, lying waste, burping, pleading. My words are without meaning and my veins begin to clot with razor blade richness, chlorine, and those anti-depressants.
Burbling with heartburn, a fractionalized robotic voice painfully began to speak. Summon me into the red ionic darkness over checkerboard horizons and heads up displays. Bring my heart forward with tripping, staggering defeat, seduced deeply by the will to seed. And wither all those hearts that wander to and fro between pages of history with no spear and with no stone. All my chains of command have been bludgeoned into madness, half wittingly, have knowing not of any dishonesty, lying naked, still tarrying the blows.
The needle and my H are the last true disciples of Christ. Romans cascade down through wilderness sages on the wings of the Renaissance into new age illusions. A new history of warfare as subtly begun on my dying body feeling cold. Feeling crisp on the height of a sky high glacier, I am so swallowed by darkness, no light, but a crimson red faintly behind my eyelids. Starless and bible black, true grounds for the blues, spacing out the witnesses while deceived; harshly teased by some demonic ruse. This ain’t no sickness, this ain’t no joke. Deception of the Thrush sings the only song we could never know.
You entered into my bloodstream just like the drug I was once so hooked on.
You said, “At least you can see your ghosts, mine prefer whispering things into my ears and never showing themselves.”
I laughed because what else was there to do. You smiled, too.
I told you never to be like me; never to act like one of the ghosts that hovered around and stifled you.
You said that every time you saw me then, you couldn’t help but see a blue light glowing around me.
You said I reminded you of hospital bathrooms and lies and imperfections. I reminded you of thin needles and punctured skin.
I was just glad we were finally getting somewhere, getting to know each other.
And I was glad you never asked why all my poems were written in the past tense, too.
You forget how to love her and she forgets what it’s like to feel like there’s enough oxygen in her lungs. Oddly spaced breaths and too much blinking – how can she even walk in a straight line these days? You’ll go right, knowing she’ll go left and you’ll lose sleep over it because what you think is best always turns out to be the worst mistake. And you promised her you’d stop trying to solve all your problems by drowning yourself in alcohol and in return she granted you the softness of her skin, the brightness of her smile. Without your drinks – you aren’t yourself. That’s what you tell her. She laughs and tells you she knows who you are, don't worry. And you don’t understand because you don’t even know who you are but you’ll believe just about anything if it means getting out of this and being able to hold on to her and her jasmine scent. She's just like spring; and where you live there's only ever two seasons.
That's what they'll say,
after you wreck your car
and spill your brains.
They won't know--
or maybe they will.
disguised as "wonderful daughter,
Everyone has earplugs,
The epidemic is supplying
some for you.
has some competition.
This ain't some new
it's not them.
unless it's them.
But it's too late by then.
It started as a puncture,
but the seam slowly ripped;
a thimble can't protect
from a poison needle tip.
She tried to mend it
by making more holes;
the tear only grew
and grew out of control.
At the spinning wheel
her life would quickly dwindle;
frantic attempts to hem
were depleting the spindle.
What started as a puncture
of seductive sedation
fueled the abuse
of machined perforation.
"Don't mourn a living corpse"
were the last words she said
as she drew the needle
that held the last thread.
I saw an old friend today.
She'd aged 30 years
in the few she'd been away.
Her former glow is all but gone,
No spark behind her green eyes.
Little more than skin and bone.
Time takes us all for a ride,
And leaves the marks on us
To check our faith and pride
But the woman I saw was not
A victim of time, no,
Her fate has been hand-wrought
My heart is broken, I fought tears
While she stood there
Recounting addiction that had added those years
I saw an old friend today
That time and heroin have taken away.
She says she's clean,
Trying to get her shit together.
Her face is skeletal,
The track-marks got her arms like leather.
But she says she's better.
It's hard, but she's better.
She just needs a break,
And if the world will let her
A chance to come back,
A chance to start over,
She says she's clean again,
She tells me she loves me,
And that last part is the straw
That breaks my emotional back,
And the pain in my chest
Feels like a heart attack
And I hugged her as if
I'd never see her again.
And begged any God that would listen
To prove me wrong.
L/ yesterdave, I can picture Glaswegian Dave
w/ his Robert Plant locks (sebaceous oils hairoically
serving this roughsleeping Jock), embroiled in t/ usual
skelartries of vagrants w/ SKOL arteries:
sherry, heroin, needlesheroin shenanigans
& shenanipettycrime. Tucking into some horse
w/ no need f/ a pairofteeth, after a Specialbrew aperitif,
then some post 'iccup pisticuffs w/ crabby cabbies
down Tesco taxirank. They drove away, but he drank
& stayed & stayed & stayed. Dave
also got my grunger brother from another mother,
Koopa Trooper's lil' sis in t/ familyway at 14. Kudos
to underage Liz tho', being wooed
by such a tatterdemalionmaned skaggis,
Sideshow Boabbarneted smackonteur
- love is, after all, showbiz. Anyhoo, 1 time
Glaswegian Dave regaled me w/ a gouch down memorylane,
of riding pillion on a furshlugginer chromeboneshaker deathtrap,
revved by a fellow fuckhead porridgewog across
t/ Forth Bridge at breakneck Braveheart brums,
a Highlandwind afroing his Robert Plant mane
(preserved so remarkably, I must reremark,
by sebaceous oils, despite a lifetime
on t/ slabs & on t/ tiles), w/ a deathwrap
of Deadly Nightshade, belladonna sellotaped
under his armpit. Dave davulged that t/ trick
was to rip that bellotaped selladonna
off t/ 2nd you felt toxin titillate
t/ psycho-attic sweet spot, or
'Ma hert widhae exploded, laddie, at 90 miles an oor!
A typical Gen Xer deathwish teen at t/ time,
that oxterry devil's cherry deathcultmystery
& armpit raspberry to life, Atropic trip
on a murderbike sounded l/ a ride home to me.