Tag Archives: drugs

~because addiction is a bitch

i.
the sun has yet to reach the east. in this thin-skinned room of dark hours comes a gathering of static & hallucinations. too many coronas, too many blunts & a labyrinth of unlabeled, unprescribed brown bottles litter the floor. clockhands crawl the wall, pointing, as if to mock his unsleep. photos tremble, echo the missing voices of a summer, passed away. he buries the unraveling; ink on the page, ink on the skin. night is needling him. night is heavy with fireflies, heavy with owls.

ii.
behind the steel bars
appears the lonely June moon
again & again

iii.
this could be
the beginning
of a poem

the crumbling
of words
to creosote
& bone ash

a cauterization
of metaphors
before the spread

like tumors
like rumors

iv.
wild throats swallow
xanax with pez
wash down whiskey
with jagermeister
& cans of diet cocaine

he will stand at the altar
recite bible passages
to skeletons of
a former self
to angels
with glittered wings

v.
when a lost son rises
whole again, the wind
returns to the sky
lah 5.15.16 ©®

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~comedown

a peculiar voice still shakes me awake
like a living nightmare
nearly four hundred days from here
a 3am stranger says you were
driving with familiar ghosts
curled above the hot curve
spooning them in your waking sleep
you were flying, uncaged bird
wingspread and flying
flying
dangerously, devilishly high
soaring that thirty seconds of
transcendence
speeding across the tracks
flying
until you fell again from
an intoxicated sky
as if an attempt to kill
your own demons
a rusted stake to the heart
and I can never write
the aching silence found
in a sunless morning
in a sterile room
the medicinal white stench
of stilled air
hanging
and you, hanging on
each startled tone, a reminder
that a cheated death was less than
a millimeter from this day
you were alive
but so far away
comatose, yet crying
I wipe the salt from the cracks
in swollen cheekbones

and like a rock song
you become one with the machines
pumping toxic venom from your
veins
draining black milk from a vacant space
behind broken ribs
where breath no longer inhabits lungs
every inch of skin, a palette of pain
hues of hurt I never knew existed
and through the doorway comes the man
who uncrucified you
to tell me you are lost in the woods
with less than one percent chance
of ever being found
last rites were all that was left

7.18.15
By Lori Hamilton, © 2015, All rights reserved.