The Joys of Heroin

The knock

At the door.

 

The sound

Like that of my head

An instrument,

The base drum.

 

Spiraling

Anticipation.

 

Fear and dread,

No longer,

Mutually,

Exclusive.

 

I disdain,

And covet,

Simultaneous.

 

The religion of the day,

And every day.

 

The Cyclops Banker.

 

My thumb

And forefinger,

The first tools.

 

Blood,

Tissue,

And dirt,

 Wiped from the spike.

 

As if,

The cleaning

Of my gravestone.

 

   

The spoon,

The second,

Its bends,

As if on a short

Stairway to hell.

 

The dirty powder

Morphs into

A watery,

Diarrhea

 Like ooze.

 

Heated using

My college

Diploma,

The third,

 

As the kindling.

 

The spike,

Mentioned

Earlier,

Now the fourth,

 

Delivers me

“From evil”.

Borrowed from

The neighbor

Down the block,

Ted,

I think.

 

Death,

Momentary,

Or not,

Sucked from the spoon.

 

 

A bungee cord

From the garage,

The fifth,

 

Tightens around my

Throwing arm.

 

The spike enters

My yearning vein.

 

The liquids

Intermingle,

 

Counterfeit

Incentive.

 

This antiseptic

Of the psyche.

 

Acupuncture

Of the streets,

 

Morphine

For the pain of life.

 

Only

Coffin

Breathing,

 

Remains.