death is a witch with eyes made of ruby mirrors, skin of sapphire junk; death is beautiful for a hype with tissue that lusts for another brand… Read more “death of a hype”
when I think of you the lights start to flicker, the moon croons with the tone of a mob-made man. I think of the fruit, the thanksgiving… Read more “to the whore with long black hair”
people no longer wonder why my first published book didn’t entail a Hollywood ending: my arms are scabbed with irritated scar-tissue, blood dried like hardened paint. if… Read more “string beans”
there’s something sane about a lady in black clothing, funeral attire mended with particular fashion, teeth like a cat on the sweetest nod, perfection that shines on… Read more “naked serenity”
I met her a couple of times–in the cool air of night by the ocean waves, nearly impervious to her presence. the lady went to sleep… Read more “Midnight Lynching”
I’ve never seen such beauty: her eyes large and forlorn, her lips plump like a bouquet of bloody roses, her skin pale like the morning air. she… Read more “such beauty”
a man who calls his mother every day is a man in love with: life, the world, the ocean, the meat of a Louisville Bat, with women,… Read more “love is a boy named Jimmy”
I lay here in discomfort ignoring the buzz of my phone nobody important calls me not that often, at least so I lay here in discomfort and… Read more “waiting for freedom”
But we, the junkie, sell our soul to Mr Black, and not because of our past, present, or future, because heroin is a nasty black spell that wants to ruin us and does. So once the junkie is strung out and fucked, the junkie looks and cries for anything in their sentimental past to replace family, so everyone the junkie talks about is a “best friend” or “brother” or some kind of “uncle.” Because once you take that plunge, and stick that spike into your tangled blue, helpless veins, you hit the reset button on your life, and relate everything you love and hate—then or now—to an illusion of family, due to the sudden loss of yours. And that hex you have very unintentionally put yourself under—when the doctor no longer feeds the habit they helped start, or when you were too young and stupid to think this could ever happen to you—is the sole reason.
When a junkie loses loved ones, we do anything in our instant messaging power to revisit the past, whether it’s people, places, things, or all of the above. And somehow, it is always the goddamn same as before, never a smidge of difference. That is why we are in the position of revisiting, and not a current state of whatever it is that connects us with this sentimentality.
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she wanted to be a poet so she went to college for 8 whole years (bad start); she became a professor at a junior college instead: (makes more… Read more “molded minds”