A Bed of Addiction
The piss yellow
sun cascades rays of light
like a waterfall over blotchy, porcelain
skin,
forcing my eyes to open
on the other side of a teenage blackout. I finger
pubic hair on sticky tiles
in a public stall, head next to a bowl,
the seamen stained brim reeking like unborn roadkill,
drawing flies
as if it were sunday brunch.
I unwire my jaw and sniff, hoping the moon didn’t shit
in my mouth
but the stench makes me claw
at the darkness filling a now pounding head,
as I dig through scraps
of distant memories like just after a hurricane, wondering
when it went wrong, as if time was even on the clock any more.
The itch for more
tickles at my veins, like a desperate hand
that can’t find the hole to surface from under the ice,
and then begins to burn
with the desire to shoot off again
like a roman candle, with a desire to forget again,
to place black electrical tape over the eyes
and mouth in exes, to slip this fleshy sack of skin
and surf the silvery skies, on waves of cocaine clouds,
until
I am nothing
but a dead doll.