Chasing dragons . . .

They gather in circles
like tattered, little monkeys
picking through each other’s limbs
Fingers tap, tap dancing on bruised, used up skin
searching for the next track of vein
to stick the grooviest of psycho gravies in
The evil, brown, gravy demon~
been on the street for years . . .
an ancient hypodermic heathen
Served up— on tar, charred silver spoons
dirty reflections burn away in the slow sim, simmer . . .
In the darkest of dark, piss-stench of a corner—
overcooked spoons, strewn on the ground
Surrounded by greasy haired street folk
turning they tricks
to support they habit
selling parts of they selves
to cash in on the quick loot
to escape the private parts of they selves
fixin’ the twitchin’— to fix they selves
so’s to never feel
the sweating, cramping, vomiting compulsions
to carry out they next hit
Morality lost
chasing smoke-filled dragons in the park
If good and evil are based on sensation
then the sensation of good is evil~
and the sensation they chase is buried inside the needle
Tssskkk . . . the "rush" in . . .
feeling you’re someone else.
No. A feeling. Not a person.
Man, just feeling something else.
IIIIIIIIII Loco . . . motive of death . . . Barreling through stops IIIIIIIIII
Junkies tied to the tracks by a choo, choo train of veins
{{{(((Horn BLURRRring)))}}}
Blub, blub, bubbling brown
before it’s going, going, going down
Bringing them down— way down
to the bottom of down
To that lost and hopeless place
that no one hangs too long around
Before fingers tap, tap
one last dance
with time. . . .

Jessica Healy
aka "bathroompoet"
West Coast tribe