In the feeble mind of an addict
the world is but a gunshot.
He watches the body fall
limp into the hands of semantics
then waits for it to rot.
-
Each day he counts the wrinkles
like blessings,
and somewhere, at the
bottom of everything
there's a God with his name
tattooed on it's lips.
-
Leaving the chamber, discarded
to a foreign body whose blood is
busy running it's course, the
warm hum as he crashes through
life like a runaway train.
-
"Are you drunk?"
Lights.
"Sir, are you drunk?"
Lights.
"Sir, we're going to have to ask you etc..."
-
Exit like breath, quick as
heroine to the milkyway, those
veins running plump to his brain,
eyes fucking the stars.
-
"God, can you hear me?
God, is this you?
You spelt it clear as day,
an eye for an eye
makes heaven blind."
-
And he aims at
dead stars.
-
00110111010001
01110110001001
11110111010011
11010100010100
-A short talk with David, afterward-
"So, what'd God give him?"
"A harvest or two for conceit."
-
The earth has all but digestered his martyr,
but they say
angel headed children
still kill cops in his name. - I saw that
cuneiform, on a subway
inscription for
better times, less is more,
starvation for
depth perception, or death.
The train
like a muzzle round the will
of it's passengers, slaveship gag and rag,
hard to do the hambone
with your feet bound to your wrist.
"Hey, let's go shoot pool."
He says to me
"Hey, let's go throw stones
at the tranny hooker down the road
and then go watch
women in bikinis at the beach."
Their bodies embalmed by the sun
and grease, caked
cooking
I melted a Barbie Doll once
she bled anxiety
and broken ankles
and children, so many children,
and fear.
-
