Treasure Island

Princess LilyPad

(In the swamp.)

Bunk of Junk- a daughter

Her emaciated frame, cowers in this basement tonite
Dim lit by a butane flame, yer junkie glow delight
Record player in the corner, stolen Salvation Army
Playing the same Lou Reed bullshit dank n endlessly.

Writhing on a piss stained mattress
and clutching on to an old birthday card from mom
that she would hang with toothpaste, if that was something she needed
never you mind beside, it would look to pathetic just Christly hanging there
all by itself oozing down the wall on a glob of crest, with no other cards to visit.
she thought it beautiful that damn card in fleeting lucidity.

This blight the butts of cigarettes dancing along the floor in various positions
almost look as though they mattress the needles strewn about in a pigs quarters.
One abcess two abscess three abcess four. Now she needs a little more.

Crows eyes almost, ashes beneath fingernails, sores and ribs,
I'd tell her to eat a hamburger, drink a lousy mr pibb
a pile of someone's daughter left here to again score. so sore.
Now she's so stinking sucked into the suck of her next fix.
Happens not soon enough, now this charred up spoon, a vein to find tough..
Sixteen not so sweet dirty bag buyin, snuffed...
Sick shes sick and chokin now she's dyin
but no hospice respite for this one.
Blind eyes are useful for the judgemental man not cryin.

Is she dead? should we call her? The EMTs barely care or bother
But she hears them hazy and grins because she wasn't a dumpster dumped junkie.
That's good enough. She delights in a pathetic ideal. Pathetic ideals are why she keeps that card and why she'll barley live to writhe and wretch another day.

Submitted: Sunday, September 01, 2013
Edited: Tuesday, September 03, 2013

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  • Ozark Mountain Homegrown (9/1/2013 1:12:00 PM)

    Such a sad picture this poem reveals and all too common in todays society...the immense sickness of an addict...physically, spiritually, & emotionally... excellent write... (Report) Reply

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