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PORCELAIN AND TILE TO DEFILE FOUR JUNKIES

You cannot imagine what I see
Unless you are exactly like me
Friends like yours die and that’s the rub
But many of mine have died in my bathtub

Just two junkies sitting together on porcelain and tile
There to defile the temple of my body I read about in some Biblical babble or other
The needle our father, the dope our mother
And every step is belabored but for the ones that lead to the man
The man who’s always there but only if you have what he needs so you can purchase that which you need
Given flight on occasion but your soul is never really freed
A soul in search of serenity on some ivory colored beach
But that’s a place Broadway and a hundred and eleventh Street won’t allow you to reach
No beach of gold beneath your feet midst bodies tanned and trim
We just pay for what we require from Fred, Greg, Tommy or Jim
Those four names
Four friends who were too busy feeling their own pain to worry about the others
Although as emotionally connected as any inseparable brothers
But alas, a mother also sometimes smothers
When their child meddles in the middle of death’s betrayal and disguise
And that’s when they discover that even the most meticulously careful junkie dies 
Yet in the center of the circle of my life these people were the hub
And each of them sacred in their indignity died in the very same bathtub

Your friends exit calmly or with a final fight
Or better yet in bed when death beckons them softly one night
My friends and I were just searching for virgin peace
And still today my tepid tears they simply will not cease
     © 2012   copyright PHREEPOETREE…..~free cee!~

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