Junkies gather in circles
Like dirty, degenerate monkeys
Inspecting each other’s limbs
Fingers tap, tap dancing on bruised, used up skin
On their quest to find the next track of veins
To stick the grooviest of psycho gravies in
The evil, brown, gravy demon
Been on the street for years,
An ancient hypodermic heathen
Served up . . . on tar, charred silver spoons
Junkie reflections burn away
In the slow sim, sim, simmer
In the darkest of dark, piss-stench of a corner . . .
Overcooked spoons strewn across the ground
Surrounded by greasy haired street performers
Turning they tricks to support they habit
Selling parts of they selves
To cash in on the quick loot
To escape the private parts of they selves
Fixin’ the twitchin’ to fix they selves
To never feel the sweating, cramping, vomiting
Compulsions to carry out
The next injection process
Morality lost, chasing
smoke-filled dragons in the park
If good and evil are based on sensation
Then the sensation of good is evil.
And the sensation they chase
Is buried inside the needle
The “rush” in . . .
Feeling you are someone else
No. A feeling. Not a person.
Just feeling something else
Junkies singing into their “frying pan” spoons
“Black tar, brown gravy cookin’
For my blue vein’s a tastin’”
IIIIIIIIII Loco . . . motive of death . . .
Barreling through stops IIIIIIIIII
Junkies tied to the tracks by
Their choo, choo trains of veins
Blub, blub, bubbling brown
Before it’s going, going, going down
Bringing them down, way down
To the bottom of down
To that lost and hopeless place
That no one hangs too long around
Before fingers tap, tap dance on skin
One last time. . .