Snook comes by
with four ten-dollar packages,
he knocks twice and I step,
I shoot one and
immediately fade to
a semblance of sleep
while drool pools on my chest.
I awake and the sun
has escaped and I
force my eyelids
toward the sullen moon
oozing incandescence
onto the vomit-stained carpet,
I’m downstairs on a
dilapidated couch riddled
with burn holes barely
lighting a Parliament, dimensions away, smoke running toward the
ceiling and
the second floor where
I hear a Dorchester
junkbox with a thick Boston accent
getting brutally fucked
by the Latino that
threatened my life with a knife
last night,
he spears her
bareback
screaming
and I wonder how he
even gets hard after
all that
fentanyl.
the neighbor’s first thought was murder
but nobody really gives a fuck in the outskirts,
I can tell the sex is
all formality and she’s
hollering just to fill either
silence or the dissonance of two moist,
foreign bodies slapping into
each other
full of hard drugs and the vigor of creation, struggle,
I feel absolute sorrow now
because he is hideous
and unkempt
and diseased
and I see shards of beauty in her past, jaded pearls,
she's just a sick dog
without a collar
in need of the cure, apocalypse every day,
she's wailing and he's spearing and I think
that's it,
I won’t bear this again,
load up the rest,
I need to go back to
sleep.
I’ve noticed something: people love grit. They step over homeless addicts in the street, but if those same vagabonds were to write praised memoirs, they’d stand in endless lines to read about their pain. They preach tolerance and equality, yet shun those around them who suffer as weak and vulnerable. They watch death and tragedy unfold on their personal screens, wide-eyed and engrossed, yet live banal, insincere existences.
That’s just an observation.
This is one of the many pieces I wrote in active addiction that inspired parts of EPISODES AND SAPPHIRE and, as you’ll soon read, VILE SELF-PORTRAITS. While my prose is fictional, the stories they are based on are not.
The picture is one of my untitled paintings from the same period.
VILE SELF-PORTRAITS AS AN ALTERNATIVE TO HYPOCRISY.
COMING SOON TO THE SCREEN YOU JACK OFF TO.
This one slays.
That one had a kick to it.