The Joyfull Life of the Eternally Stoned

Crap, Sliding from the shelf like the drug infested books.
The fever running cold as the night steams away
In the smoky back of the casino,
Shot through the walls by the choking noises
Of sex, the sword, and the climatic pose of the
18th century portrait on the wall.
I forfeit my obsession with myself
To check the mail
Gently and Unfeeling, sliding the zipper back up
My half-ass pants.
2o dollars and another letter of confession.
That’s all that’s in the mail for me…ever.
A confession of how her nipples are too
Pink and unused,
A confession of how large she can get to
Compensate for me.
Fuck that. I have no need for another
Whore who opens up for me when ever
I walk through the door.
So I walk back inside,
My senses assaulted by the reality of the
Footprints left in my past.
I find the magazine from earlier,
Dog-eared and tired. Stained.
I stroll back into my bedroom,
Take another needle. Test. It works.
And without the flinch that
I had for years I shoot the addiction
And feel myself bleed inward.
The wound that never closes. *sigh*
“What a life…” I speak in unknown
Words as I pick up the stained magazine of
Naked tits and pussies, and slip into the
Bathroom unzipping my fly.