Posts Tagged ‘score’

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.

Good Friday Ganja

Posted: April 10, 2015 in poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

orange_bud
It’s Thursday night
Got to get some weed before Good Friday
But it’s past six thirty and Bill won’t be on
So I call Tiressa and ask her if she’s got any
It’ll be an hour she replies by text message
So I stuff around by the shops aimlessly
And generally try to waste time
Buy a paper, read it
Have at least five cigarettes
Walk up and down the road
Think to myself:
‘How many hours have I spent waiting for drugs-
A fucking shit-load I bet’
Time seems to wander in maple syrup
The sun slows down and burns a hole in the ground
Then I try to ring her again as the hour is up
I can’t get through to her so I walk down to her place
When I get there she says it will be another hour
Now my bullshit detector is going off
I’ve been in enough drug deals to know that her suppliers are screwing her around
I should try somewhere else
So I ask her if she knows anywhere
She says ‘why don’t you try the Maoris down the street next to the shops’
So I ask her how to find them
She says walk down the road for about three hundred metres and look for a red commodore wagon
So I head off and soon get back to the road next to the shops
Walk about three hundred metres and I see the red commodore wagon
Knock on the door, and I tell them Tiressa sent me and I’m looking for some sticks
The cuddly Maori woman at the door says ‘No worries, I know what it’s like to be without a smoke-
I’ll just go and ask my husband. How many do you want?’
I say, ‘I’d like four,’ and give her a hundred bucks.
She takes the money and closes the door.
I’m thinking ‘Fuck! I hope they don’t rip me off.’
But she’s back soon, with foils
Haven’t seen foils for fifteen years.
These days dope usually comes in little plastic bags
But they look an OK size-wise
I thank her and head back up the road
I see a factory surrounded by bushes as I’m walking
So I stop off behind the bushes and have a couple of cones with my pipe
‘Fuck me,’ I think to myself, ‘this is the best shit I’ve had for years!’
My brain feels like it’s been encased in a warm pulsating psychedelic blanket
A succulent green haze descends on my consciousness and I feel incredibly free of anxiety and relaxed.
Heavenly visions of translucent summer days dance through my skull
Those Maoris know their weed
So by this stage it’s about 9:30,
I get on the train and head home.

bud
Hopping on the train to Queens Park
Sixty bucks in my hand with a heart full of hope, John Lennon spectacles and a Hawaiian shirt
Time to make a deal on covert corners
I get there
The door’s wide open but a guy jumps out of a parked car and asks
‘Are you chasing?’
‘Yeah
Follow him through the doorway
He pulls out a metallic thermos and opens it up
It’s crammed full of sticks
‘How many you want’
‘Two’
I hand over the mullah and secrete the little pillows of happiness in my pocket
Leaving the house, I head for the station
Stop in a park where the old library used to be facing the station and pack a cone
Intake of sweet smoke, so much nicer than tobacco
A haze of lime-green satisfaction descends
The grass is green as a rainforest
The sky is azure bright and unimpeded by clouds
Then I roll a smoke and head for the station
Ten minutes to wait for the train to Oats Street

cocaine
I can’t score cocaine in Perth:
I can’t find the neon plastic dancers who appreciate the covert way of the snow white powder.
I can’t do line after line of coke and feel sped up and powerful and chatter extravagant bull-shit to my mates.
I can’t experience the peaks and valleys of a raging rollercoaster cocaine addiction.
I can’t get crack either and I’d love to know why this is so.
I can’t imagine why someone isn’t bringing coke in on a boat or shoving it up their ass.
I can’t understand why organized criminals don’t get their shit together and import the stuff but,
I can’t afford it anyway.
I can score pot in Perth:
I can go to an open house and pick up a gram for thirty bucks.
I can smoke it up with my mates and dream of fields of undulating green covered with mature female mull plants in bud.
I can feel my brain go all fuzzy then begin to recite hallucinatory cabalistic texts.
I can imagine Bogota, Bogota a city of cartels and homicides.
I can imagine this city where cocaine flows through arcane veins.