Inverse relationship for diminishing returns
on big investments in crack cocaine.
For each expenditure
of untold dollars,
she obtain an ever shrinking
imaginary benefits with a compounded deficit,
on a five minute high.
The Government provides crack pipes,
and money for the addict’s many highs;
with holding hands
of social policy
for the public good.
To weave a sarcastic social fabric,
and mend the gaping tears
in our lasting living sheets.
The dealer pushes the crack
mixed with this and that;
whatever they got
or want to concoct.
With the long arm of the law
the police smashes the glass sticks.
Maybe even arrest a few
for unlawful use
or illegal drug deals,
unless done in
“HARM REDUCTION” sanctuaries.
Check the centre’s policies,
on Police entry.
Friends provide the peer pressure,
the encouragement,
as continuous whispering
demon voices in her pretty little ear.
What an unbreakable synergy
working in marvelous harmony
for the common good
of our fragile community.
Byway of accumulation
or differential summation,
life fleys her body;
governed by the decay power function.
While there is an exponential increase
in hidden cost
to the burning of our own cross.
A mosaic of communal organic tapestry,
stitched together with fragile living treads
of bonds and trust,
being slowly eaten
by narcotic worms.
With her flesh sizzling,
her soul and spirit frying,
in merciless fires, heat, and lies.
Burning up in inhalations,
then exhalations
of puffs of crack smoke.
Grab the “HARM REDUCTION” instruments,
insert the solid cocaine stone,
then ignite the rock
like a dying red sun
at the end of it’s life’s journey,
into dazzling pops and crackles
like the fourth of july.
Like playful puppies,
jumping and frolicking all about
with great exhilaration in anticipation
of being fed their mother’s warm milk.
She takes one puff
of the real stuff.
Her eyes roll back
in her shrunken skull.
Her muscles continuously twitch and scream
like break dancers on the big screens,
or sirens hollowing on the ocean breeze.
Her muscle spasm,
as though she is in
of multiple organismic trance.
Or like the last gasp of living breath
from a stuck bloodletting hog,
expelling it last vestige of life giving fluids,
and driving it’s cold body into convulsions.
The damaged neurons
scattered through the vast expanse
of the nervous system.
JUST DON’T SEEM TO FIRE RIGHT!
Bastardization and degradation
of bio-chemical-electrical transmissions,
sins against one’s own flesh.
She is trapped
like a fidgeting rat,
trotting back and forth
on the path of life’s journey without
a meaning
a purpose
a place for being.
Other than to be used,
and be consumed
or to devour on the hour.
Almighty God,
where has all the hope gone.
Crack has caught
another big blissful fish
with curved barbed hollowed hooks;
that continually sucks her blood
as it slowly works its way
deeper and deeper into poisoned flesh.
To wither her spirit,
to dry up her soul,
and continue to siphon her very life
till all that remains is brittle bones.
She become easily prone
to suggestions
or suggestive conditioning.
Mesmerized like pavlovian dogs,
to salivate,
to rob,
to steel,
to be an irrational hoodlum.
Or even worse!
To bow down low
on her knees and toes
as though she carries a curse.
Without the whimper of a scream.
Surrendering...
Submitting...
Selling holy things
that should never be sold.
Pleasuring for bad money
that cannot even buy old clothes.
To sell her precious essence,
barter her personal treasures,
man or woman it makes no difference.
For she have entered the inescapable world
of teasing psychotic visions,
titillatingly beautiful
and seem so real.
Where she chase a fleeting dream
of fire breathing dragons.
She will never catch,
but hope to sack.
As the blinking fireflies
with their beacon of hope
in innocent dreams
hasen to leave
the vile realm
she has chosen to lead.
Until the Grim Reaper recycles her life,
and comes calling her living soul.
Which was given in good-faith,
in an act of trust and confidence
on an expired timely lone.
For the life we carry
is not our own.
Leaving a world of damage
and heart aches.
Her tsunami of destruction,
caused by a quick burning flame.
Tries to cast an illusion of control,
for an out of control wildfire of cocaine
feeding off her brain,
chopping up the circuits of her mind
to make her insane.
The many little demons from the
stenching
stagnant
heavy
thick
malodor
emanating from
hell’s glass cylinder door.
Attaching to her blood,
and inserting themselves
into chosen parts of her id
to suckle on her thoughts
like minions of starving leeches.
To assault
twist,
and even squeeze out
every last drop of dripping pain
to reap the real gains
of crack cocaine.
Causing her to surrender to madness,
and the selling of her four beloved babies,
on a dirty one way track,
around the corner at the back,
and next to the garbage dumpster
for crack.
The mirage of the utopia she first believe,
disappear like billions of night stars
vanishing with the reality
of a coming dawn.
The endless black board screams
behind her purgatory viel
seem so surreal
in this dystopian field
But,
her hell just started!
To begin her holy-war,
she declared on herself,
and expect to win
while singing
“THE CONQUEROR’S VICTORY SONG.”
On her personal jihad,
with her own guilty right hand,
she takes her bloody grinning head,
held aloft in mocking conquest
of herself.
Slumbering sleeper,
you better awake!
Your time is already come and gone!
Leegal Poet
Wayne Ferron . All rights reserved @ copyright
