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ODE TO JUNK

“Come to the shooting gallery –
Today poison is mellow –
Get your stuff, get your stuff!”
And she boots me till I Glow
Insatiable, I can’t get enough
Like a vampire needing blood
I then try some angel dust
Receiving my orgasmic jolt and
A slave to cosmic contraband
In love with chemical lust
Speedballing fast and flying high
Through the clouds to kiss the sky
Thanks to the dealer in this grotshop
On whom I so rely
And I never miss a drop
Not much later I pop some acid
Gliding away on a terrific trip
Into space and out of sight
Captain Cosmos and I’m only a kid
But free-er than you at this height
And with my free-base extraction kit
A neophyte inhaling snow
Exploring virgin territory
Coke, I sure am crying for it
And my mind it sure does blow
And with pupils like pin-points
I put away my clotted needle
Yes I’m booted and bullet-proof
And enjoying two juicy joints
And floating slowly through the roof
I’ll cop again in three hours
Ketamine and Nitazenes
Infused through core pills
Fentanyl, Vicadin
And OxyContin
Close all window-sills
Hip hallucinations a hit away
Living only for that score
When I’ll again receive party powers
But I’m needing more and more
Now fleshing out Krokodil
Synthetically morphing my escape
Who knows what life it kills
During a green and scaly foray
Hope this dope don’t croak my escape
As I face my foul decay
Meet my friend, a fixer chick
As we hustle Johns on the side
Because we need the extra loot
For enough to get the same kick
When we score again and shoot
We do Johns at Toilet Swallow
It’s a pity about my herpes
But we crave cash for a gram
Especially now, I’m feeling so low
And for a fix I give a damn
Sweating while coughing black phlegm and blood
The withdrawal pangs of cold turkey
With a slight case of jaundice
In the mirror my alien face is crud
But you get used to it with practice
One more John and I’ll have the cash
To score a little ‘ice’ cream
And maybe a bit of hash
Some ego food for this funky dude
My desire so extremely lewd
Again I withdraw my rusted syringe
A certifiable narcissist on heat
Yes baby, this is a spacial binge
As I receive that supercharged flash
And loving my effigy, burning to ash
Smugglers, lookouts, baggers, and pushers
Heroin, snow, crystal-meth and cappis
Bongs, burners, needles and spoons
Fixers, snorters, draggers and poppers
And we all keep singing their tunes
They say it’s so diabolic
That I should be a coke-a-holic
But how the hell would they know
About ego-rushes so euphoric
If they’ll never have a go?
So it’s a dirty and dangerous trade
But the bribed cops wouldn’t dare raid
We coke-heads thrive on it
Stuff you, it’s a junkie’s element
So don’t bug me you mothers – relent!
Losing my nasal membrane
A hole in the septum of my nose
As I visit the full-time snow-brokers
For another relief from pain
Yeah, I sure do need those jokers
Nearly there, thanks to quite a good day
Doing Johns, must’ve turned twenty tricks
And all of them were condoned
Now heaps of death with which to pay
For lots of smack to get me stoned
Aspirins and cola gives you quite a buzz
Or so they used to say
Went to the loo and pee’d
And soon afterwards O.D.’d
Forgetting goodbyes – futile fatal seed.

DjMayhew

ODE TO JUNK "Come to the shooting gallery

Embetween memories and thoughts of defeati rack lines on this mirror stuck in DisbeliefWhat have i becomei marvel rathen than ponder on who i am today a toxic routine planted roots every morning i toss a seed another takes its place its hard to live as empty as i feel today i know the sun sets differently when i pray i atill live in shame its obvious i cant snort this pain away tommorrow is another day when i wake ill pray for a sober breath instead of another action of disgust

Embetween memories and thoughts of defeati rack

Author: Gina M.

I Don’t Miss the Birds
I’m so sober,
I miss talking to the 4 a.m. moon.
The way she’d respond in phases.
The way she rose no matter the places I gravitated.
I’m so sober.
I used to be awake for days and now I’m asleep before eight.
I’m so sober.
When I see cirrus clouds in the sky, my thoughts don’t go straight to lines of cocaine.
I’m so sober.
I used to maintain my high,
Now I maintain life.
Now I don’t look down on myself.
I don’t look down into mirrors.
I keep my head held high.
I’m not high.
I meet my reflection straight on.
I’m so sober.
I don’t roll bills into straws; my money would unravel like lockets of curls.
I don’t stumble from stalls with powder in balls in my pockets.
I’m so sober my bills stay straight in my wallet.
I’m so sober.
My phone barely rings.
It used to sing with the needs of all the people wanting all the shit that I used to have.
I’m so sober I snapchat my actual cat.
I’m so sober.
I preach meditation. I preach self-care. I preach coincidence.
Now my phone never dings because people don’t care what I have now that I’m sober.
I’m sober.
I’m so sober.
Since I’m sober, I don’t deal.
I’m too real for some people.
Since I’m sober, I don’t miss most people.
I kiss less people.
I miss the moon, but I don’t miss the feeling when the sun takes over and I still haven’t slept.
I don’t miss the way my heart used to pound in my chest.
I don’t miss the birds chirping the melody of my utter lack of self-respect.
I’m so sober I don’t miss.
I don’t miss birthdays. Or alarms.
I don’t miss milestones. Or opportunities.
Now that I’m sober, I don’t miss my family.
Now that I’m sober, we talk all the time.
I’m so sober I don’t miss the sun in the sky.
I’m so sober,
I don’t miss the birds.

Author: Gina M. I Don’t Miss the Birds I’m

Author: Justin A. Curmi

I: A Cheap Flight 

Floral containing sandwich-ziploc bag

of parched mind-altering substance; urging 

to be inhaled through an inferno drag      

while sitting on a ship — slowly merging  

two hemispheres into one entity.

A Maui Wowie soothing getaway

for a solid-liquid identity;

meanwhile, lungs produce a stormy airway. 

A pauper enriching vacation far  

from life of modern civilization 

on an illusionary lush sandbar         

as dulcet ukulele elation

strums harmoniously throughout the room,     

long-temporary stay in the back room.  

II: Raucous and Lively Fireworks of Om

Two mil bag zip with glaring Megatron

that transforms dry dance floors to a shower

more kaleidoscopic than dingy Tron;

a midsummer fantasy with power,

and a tangible orchestra of beats.

All waiting on an eager ingestion, 

which forces the palate to urge for sweets

without imposing and halting questions. 

There in the grove of sensual bodies

I heard Dionysus’ warning to man,

yet the bright raining light disembodies 

form from trivialities of madman       

who greedily plays courtship and money;

however, unworthy in Bliss Honey.           

III: A’ Picking We Go  

In the Artistic Muse Athenaeum

earthly categorized shelves line the walls

as thirsty eyes survey the museum

while merrymakers pass the narrow halls 

to embark on autumn explorations 

towards streams of Lethe the forgetful,

which circulates throughout every nation

causing nights of Bacchus the regretful. 

However, in grand vantablack blunders

the expansive void lulls confused spirits

of the: rainmakers, shamans, and hunters,

from harsh daily granulating physics     

of distant computerized industry     

who quickly minimizes dignity.  

IV: Wintery Fairyland

Godlike snowballs waiting in gleeful hands  

as noses jingle to the frosty touch

that will introduce them to godly lands

while waiting around sets of tight clutches   

during radiant sounds thumbing the door,  

and aphrodisiac thoughts twirl and whirl

throughout the new Victorian decor,

which invokes a lofty opulent pearl.

A succulent taste of Nietzsche’s Table,

Marx’s Owners of Creative Creation, 

Age of Enlightenment’s changing playbill, 

or the pinnacle of Pluto’s stations  

where avaricious false deities dwell

as well as numb vermilion noses swell.        

Author: Justin A. Curmi I: A Cheap Flight  Floral