Posts Tagged ‘heroin’

scream

Back ensconced in ward 8 Bentley Hospital in my flytrap mind

At least I’m with my crazy people

Suicidal ideation with cold claws of depression around my throat

Empathy and cigarettes as I meet the gentle mental

Telling tales of trauma as we lurch toward medication time buoyed by companionship

Memories of their voices

‘She was born a heroin baby’

‘I took an overdose of Valium and a shitload of antidepressants’

‘I tried to kill myself twice’

‘I wish I was dead’

‘I tried to hang myself with a sheet and the nurse found me’

People rendered fragile by the viscous blender of earth

Some think us hopelessly broken

We balance madness and sanity in our brains sometimes madness wins

Medication time, medication time

Drugs are shuffled by doctors and dolled out to wild-eyed victims of the societal meat-grinder

Titration of pills and prescriptions to quell anxiety, depression and delusion

Uppers, downers, round and rounders

Anti-psychotics, anti-depressants and heavenly benzodiazepenes

Then we sit outside in the courtyard to smoke to punctuate our day

Sharing cigarettes with noble depressives or exploring thought projection with shamanic schizophrenics

We dance a devilish dance in a rain of paranoia

Until it all becomes too much

We are sad, we are sometimes shattered

Sometimes hard to love

But we laugh and we smile too

Then howl out the agony of our souls

We will keep trying

To get our heads together

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skull

When you do drugs and get to middle age you lose friends

Dead friends haunt my dreams as creeping spectres

Dead friends are a tragedy of blood

Dead friends are like nails through my limbs

Dead friends are like migraines in my brain

Dead friends are holy to my spirit

Dead friends remind me I am mortal

Dead friends are ripping me apart

Can’t stop thinking about them

Their ghosts howl through my consciousness like harpies

Oscillating upwards from my reptile brain

Ned hung himself after doing speed for two weeks

Doug OD’d on heroin

Michelle died in a diabetic coma

Lee died of a heart attack

Don’t know how Venetta died

So many ghosts encircle me

Grief and sorrow punch a hole through my soul

But I will remember these faithful companions on the road to annihilation

 

vibration

Vibration, a moment, a thought

Just like salvation inflation through brine

The pleasures of dreaming insane

Embrace me like cobwebs and wire

But I break through

With pictures of you

Tucked into the ass pocket of my jeans

For I am birthed in a madrigal multiverse

Expelled by a vibrating psychedelic gibbon

Transcending dimensions

Monsterous energy

Marvellous fractal radiance

Sending me into paroxysms of joy

With his waves of optimism

And pantomime enthusiasm

To burst the bubble of consequence

And dance freely in a garden of nude women

Like a flame dancing through air

Or a leaf buffeted on a breeze

Or a most immaculate hit of thai white

Oxycontin

Posted: December 8, 2015 in poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , ,
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These green 80 milligram OxyContin tablets sell for $80 each on the street. The pink 20 milligram tablets fetch $20 each. This pain reliever is becoming the recreational drug of choice in Maine, authorities say. (NEWS Photo by Scott Haskell)

‘You have to keep chewing them’ my mate says
‘They’ve changed the formulation to stop people shooting them up’,
Feels like chewing rubber but it eventually breaks up
About ten minutes later I begin to feel a warm, numbing sensation in my legs
Gradual warming of my moribund bones, warming my brain like an internal balaclava
Ah Opiates- poppy-powered self-indulgent cocooning into comfort
Adrift in psychedelic notes of Hendrix with my heavy eyelids leading me through various semiconscious states
A whole spectrum of dopey dreams to get lost in
My whole body is perfectly numb and at peace
In my mind I soar over poppy fields through a purple sky on a scented breeze
Then it feels like my brain is curling up into a ball, secure against the world- a perfect state of addled apathy
Total body bliss
And the feeling keeps going for hours
Perfectly wasted
Hill-billy heroin indeed

Teenage prostitute smoking heroin (chasing the dragon), London. Model released.

Teenage prostitute smoking heroin (chasing the dragon), London.
Model released.

Heat the smack on the foil
Chase the dragon
Inhale the wandering bead
Chase the dragon
Wander through gorgeous opium fields
Chase the dragon
Go and score some more
Chase the dragon
While the longing is pure
Chase the dragon
While the hunger is vital
Chase the dragon
Chewing your own tail
Chase the dragon
Let the smoke rise to heaven
Chase the dragon
Let your consciousness roam
Chase the dragon
Let the ball burn across the foil
Chase the dragon
Collapse and nod off in a corner
Chase the dragon

heroinspoon

Jack Mack loves his smack
Dream juice is his poison
Sinks into his wasted splendour
Like a warm inviting bath of angels’ tears
Seven times a day
Needle and spoon are his intimate friends
He’s fucked up every vein in his arms
And every one in his legs
He’d even fucked up the one in his cock
So he shoots up in the jugular vein in his neck
His blood is corrupted by Hepatitis C and his liver slowly rots
And every day is catalyzed by the alchemy of need
To take a break from hanging out, he sometimes smokes some weed
And benzos, codeine cough mixture, anything just to take the edge off pain
Of hanging out for opiates- nothing else matters
His habit is huge- a monk in the order of our Lady Perpetual Decadence
Track marks crucify him on every single vein
He’ll shoot up anything called dope then he’ll shoot again
His whole personality reduced to machinery to score
So he’ll keep on shooting skag, always wanting more.

heroinneedles

Victoria Park, early 2000s
I bullshit my way into a job in a drug rehab clinic
Schizoaffective poly-drug abusers
Manic depressive heroin addicts
Just plain depressive heroin addicts with a dash of PTSD
Lashings of ADHD criminals, usually on speed
All manner of benzodiazepine addicts
Benzodiazepines are the nastiest
Seizures if you go into withdrawal
There was one guy on sixty Valiums a day
All of them caught up in a spider web of chemical obligation and craving
Variables in the obscure calculus of tolerance and addiction
None of them ever thought they’d be addicts
Almost all have not two but four or five diagnoses- substance abuse and several psychiatric conditions
Never met a junkie without a mental illness
Eighty percent of them have hepatitis C
So many junkies continuously bitching and whinging
And no-one bitches and whinges like a junkie
Track Marks on arms and brain-stem
Paranoia
Depression
Delusions
No sleep
No hope
Voices telling them to kill themselves
Sexually abused by their fathers
All medicating their pain with drugs
And when you hear their stories
You don’t blame them

Their movements are wasted and agitated
Everything directs their minds to a continual craving
Desperation reeking, sneaking in and permeating the whole clinic
So much need, so much suffering, so much trauma
Endless longing for all manner of pharmaceuticals
To fill the vortex-hole in their souls

Half human-half corpses
Pinpoint-pupil eyes
Flickering about
A stream of lies on their tongues
They’d kick smack
And get addicted to buprenorphine or methadone
Which are more addictive than heroin
And don’t help much
But at least they won’t steal your video anymore

The Smack Poem

Posted: February 6, 2015 in poetry
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heroin
Let’s get on
We’re gonna do some downtown
Because we have money and rebellious tendencies
And we have the right contacts
First I give my money to the guy
Then there’s always the waiting
Time slows as if stuck in molasses
Then it’s here in a little paper package
We go thirds in a hundred bucks worth
My mate mixes up in a spoon
With water from a boiled kettle
We have swabs, clean fits, even a tourniquet
All the fits are made up
He can’t find a vein in my hand
I look over to my left inner arm and see one
Faint blue snaking down towards my hand
Embedded in my pale flesh
My mate inserts the 1 ml insulin syringe down to the plastic collar in my vein
He pulls back on the stopper and a bead of dark red blood appears at the top of the smack solution
A perfect hit, first time for that vein
He pushes the stopper in,
Halfway down, he asks if it hurts
I say no
He pushes it in all the way
Gnarly narcotics are hurtling through my blood and into my rapscallion brain
A gorgeous warm numbness permeates my consciousness and my body feels soft, profound and infinitely heavy all at the same time
It comes on slowly
In a couple of minutes, anxiety, pain and paranoia have left me
I am in a perfect physiological state far superior to normal
This is the ultimate hangover cure
Just like Iggy Pop
Just like Kurt Cobain
Just like William Burroughs
Just like Lou Reed
I’m a citizen of a sacred dope kingdom
I’m a poppy-powered Dionysius
I suck the sap of the sweet somnolent flower
I’m curled up and comforted in a chemical bubble
A beloved son of a hedonistic god and blessed with holy analgesia
Pupils pinned to points in an expansive smack space with a subversive geometry
A heroin Houdini as I again dodge the habit the pigs and the politicians say I’m supposed to have by now
Like many other people who know how to use and not abuse
‘You’ve got to watch your quantities,’ as Keith Richards said
Just for six hours I lurk in a heavenly hagiography of hopped-up heroes and soft mellow feelings
Valhalla for the chemically impaired
Enlightened and emerging from my introvert shell
So free of fear that I cross over into confidence and charm
Enjoying the companionship of my fellow wastoids
Kurt always said he felt more sociable after a shot
Social anxiety dissolves in opioids
The ultimate answer
To almost any problem
Is thirty three bucks worth of skag
Coming soon to a dealer near you

1998: Portrait
Emergency in the house of lout!
Someone has put a Lou Reed album on.
The boys begin to rub their arms, and eye each other furtively,
‘Oh come on man, let’s get on’ someone says
Phone call time, the man is there.
He’s got the goods as they say,
and he’s coming on over.
He rides over on a Ducati motorbike.
With little paper packages of powder mystery,
Twenty five bucks and you’re off your head.
Then mixing up in a spoon, chucking in a cigarette filter,
The point of the syringe is in the filter sucking up the opiate juice.
A plume of blood in the clear liquid of the syringe, then it is pushed on home.
The sweetest taste in the top of my skull,
So warm all over and nostalgic for days without pain or perplexity,
I am the dancing bear of love and happy coincidence,
Tickle my fur, come for a cuddle.
We all feel so warm and loved inside by a thousand fuzzy koalas,
But from the outside it doesn’t look so good,
As we nod off in the corner.

Nick

Posted: March 4, 2014 in poetry
Tags: , , , , , ,

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You were always just so cool,
In your uber-gnarly sixteen hole Doc Marten’s boots and leather jacket,
Which you passed onto me and I could never quite pull off.
You were always just so cool,
With your girlfriends and your grin and your crack-pot schemes,
Your graphic design and arty inflections.
You were always just so cool,
Meeting The Ramones in Amsterdam,
Running amuck in Kashmir.

Then we dived into the smack.
Hey it was the nineties!
We were the real trainspotting.
It descended like a mist of cottonwool,
As we speed-balled with abandon through the endless streets of the night,
Laughing at the thought of our ghosts and howling out our prophecies with our mates.
Nodding off in corners in the embrace of the poppy,
And listening to Nirvana.

And no matter how messed up we were you always looked after me like an older brother,
But you were my younger brother.
Then we came out the other side and you went North to get away,
And built an adventurer’s life for yourself on the boats.
Two hundred years ago you would have become a pirate,
You were always going off on a new adventure diving or going off to some magical azure waters.
So you made some money and bought a place in Cairns,

But I never got over to see you there.
We were going to take on the night in Cairns,
But it never happened.
And some fateful day,
A mate wanted you to go to Laos with him,
And you said yes, take me to the wild lands of Asia!
First thing you did was crack a rib kick boxing,
For which you may have been given the wrong medication,
But you never made it out,
You never came back,
We don’t know if you were killed or died from an interaction with medication and alcohol.
And now all I have are your sunnies,
Which make me look cooler but not cool enough,
Not as cool as you.