Heroin's Satelleites - Poem by Brevet Wilson
I could write about the snow,
the silent white death that covers the city
and mutes everything... just silence.
But there are too many lousy naturalist poets.
I am a romantic.
I would rather write about a 3 day heroin jag,
in a hotel that charged by the week or the hour.
Her name was Jenny,
she was a rich girl who liked moms pain pills
She was the only junky I ever met who purposely dressed in 'heroin chic'.
She wore combat boots
(which she would rip up herself when she bought them)
and t-shirts held together by strategically placed safety pins.
We hold up in that Hotel for a weekend
her money, my dope.
She would lie on the bed and smoke.
' The satellites are out tonight, ' she drawled through a Heroin fog.
'Cold eyes, in the sky, glowing like stars.'
She turned to face me. I was in a chair trying to find a vein.
rivers of blood ran like tributaries onto the floor.
'Do you think they will find what they are lookin' for? '
I stopped, laid the rig on the table, I had found a vein
I could feel the junk burning through my veins..
'I don't know.' was all I could say.
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