Greetings to the Depraved and Sleep Deprived;

Let me begin by saying that I am technologically challenged (and might I add, financially challenged as a result), so creating a blog is a bit out of character for me. On the other hand, nighttime mania, my unfortunate superpower, allows me to think and act in mystifying ways. Thus the birth of my crippled brainchild. The following content is unapologetic, crass, and certainly not politically correct. So if you have a proclivity towards Hallmark, Disney, and tact--or if your circadian rhythms are like a velvety Beethoven symphony --this may not be the blog for you. For all of you unfortunate, standing and pleading at the gates of R.E.M.; you, white-knuckled while awaiting your Ambien prescription refill; you, counting endless sheep--so many that you could felt around the world...Welcome. It is nice to finally have some company.

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

"The Needle Exchange"

“The Needle Exchange” punctured Our exchange of careening sweatied sheet words.
Stale, stagnant air, and an uncompromising topical tropical oral humidity,
possibly reminiscent of the topographical tenderloin prescription stripmalls
caved in, hollowed faces, toothless solicitations, empty black hole abysmal eyes, and sliding-scale relief
Black, brown, or round and white
A nearsighted spectral chart
Various nanometers of obliteration
Your arm, Ed McMahon’s recipient
a large Rx check
Inkblot bruises like nebulous mood ring faces
Purple to green, Green to blue
Splattered with Jackson Pollock carelessness
Smoking a fag with shaky, ravaged cuticle fingers
Retreated nailbeds, nervously eroded by aggressive saliva
Sheets crinkled as the whole tattered bed inhales,
And with the exhale
The sheets slide straight
Relaxed eggplant paraffin wax
I sympathize
And our two seaweed tongues thrust up a tide
Momentarily transferring your breath into my cheek pockets
Like sweet, tingling chewing tobacco.
I offer bullet point kisses, tracing the reclusive translucence of your veins,
Following poison’s path,
But knowing that this journey I am unwilling to take
I even refuse to pack you a paper-sack lunch
All my willingness was shot up my dilated nose long ago
leaving snotty disdain, and unpresentable pity.
Unwilling to be maternal material, or some oedipal edifice.
Both of us?
Cooking up my own necessary defenses,
While you do your own spoonfeeding
Your Lady O! Is too misleading
And I cannot promise star-sapphires exploding and stretching under your skin
Reveries diving in and from your every pore
A million feather fragments dusting epidermal crevices, searching for Lady O’s chalky white fingerprints
My onion skin arms cannot compete with her surging occult charms
I know too well
Her brother was a dear friend of mine
I know too well
How to cross that thin white line.

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