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The Narcotic Knave

It’s an indigestible December where

Snows gradually graze the ground,

Burying any trace of ember there

Burning fiercely to be found;

Another outcast extinguished

Reminiscing Vitality’s touch

W/ but one last breath relished

Ere Winter’s melancholic clutch.


The mind is the loneliest

island whereon to be stranded,

saturated by the nitty-gritty

of Life, the underbelly of

the Beast gutted w/ a knife,

Since schmucks like me keep

eviscerating the Lamb; bathing

in the cesspool of the damned

and spitting the subsequent plaque

into the Book of Life

w/ frightful alacrity – disciples

of a lecher’s lore

And the gangly vegetable enigma of ghouls –

And I, oh, I

felt I was the indissoluble

savior of such fools, buried

a mile ‘neath my tomb of ice:

frost-bitten by addiction’s perfidious

teeth chiseled by my insolence

narcotic as they come; a malady

w/ no remedy; numb animus,


Black Delilah of the

incubus, doomed

forevermore a slave to my vice.


I’m the drunken blur,

The narcotic knave,

The emaciated cur

Who digs the grave

To gnaw the bone

Of a senescent love,

Alone to atone

To seraphs above.

I need God’s gold,

A real Heaven to behold,

For these hellion thrillse

Are killin’ me cold…

Every day, another dollar,

Another dollar for pills.

Every day, another dollar

To the Devil I’m sold!

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