.:SPEED:.
 

By ~zenwerewolf~ 

hung out to dry out
the hang outs are dried up
the hang ups are calling back

crackpots are waltzing through inbetween places
while overhead traces of memory fade
the bloodstone erasure of an ignorant vagrant
on road to the flagrant substance abuse

hung out to dry up the blue collar workout
to try out the crime of ingesting a line
to try to outdo what you did just last night

hung up on staying in tune w/ the buzz
you've lost all your trust
your passion for dust
overtaking all boundries 
you set for yourself

now safe in your veins
the last bit remains
boiled away in a spoon

you hang up the phone call
for a call back from a page

your pager is your life,
your lover, your need
for another quick fix
to speed you through
that one last night
before you swore
to finally quit

but your hangups
won't hang out
to dry out
you are sick.

the greatest will go
to their graves like the rest
but your rest is a hell
of your own devising

dying of slow poisen,
cease
&
desist!



I hate morality plays, the assumption that an author
 can make a case for the good or evil of a certain 
course of action, & despise cluttering up perfectly 
good poems w/ moral themes. This poem is about a guy, 
not about a drug, nor about the good or evil of the drug.

The guy in question was named james. he lives, or at 
least did live, in denver. He had been on speed since 
he was twelve, & had been shooting speed since he was 
fifteen. when I met him he was twenty, twenty-two, something.

when you reach that level of speed usage, you don't 
sleep ever. at one point james had been awake for 
twenty-seven consecutive days, & he passed out on the 
couch for eighteen straight hours after I made him some pancakes.

being w/out sleep for that long changes the 
fundamental personality in ways that I can't quite 
explain, but suffice it to say that james was speed, 
he exuded it in his motions, he stank of speed, his 
eyes never stopped moving. the best term=sketchy. he was sketchy.

he got the speed through a system of barter that he 
had worked out, whereby he spent the early morning 
hours patroling the alleyways & digging through the 
trash looking for things he could trade to his meth 
dealer for speed. he had to have the speed, cause 
without it he could never have the patience to spend 
hours wandering through the alleys looking through trash.

Easily one of the most unreal individuals I have ever 
met, like a cardboard character in a bad crime novel.

this isn't a moral poem, its just about this guy, ya know?-.:.



Shelter In Starlight









there of course must first be some contact
some way of establishing direct communication
without this direct and open line of interaction
there can be no transmutation of energy





Come now, don't look at me like that,
looking at me with those smashed in eyes
all the pain driven directly to the forehead
the lines crushed thick and smeared dark
bold hard lines dribble and leak soul pain...


Wipe them off,
take my rags and scrub hard,
scrub like all of heaven was waiting for you
arms outstretched, face upturned,
walk this tree-lined moon path
your song arising from the back of your throat
to wind its way through the forest
to the dark heart of the woods
where it gives birth to legends
and sustains the weaker spirits


you are a believer, you are a creator,
you do yourself no justice with this blackness
there is no place for deception
on the palate of your perception