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
a little
too much.
She was the only junky I ever met who purposely dressed in 'heroin chic'.
She wore combat boots
fishnet stockings
(which she would rip up herself when she bought them)
short skirts
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.