Substance
Closing your eyes in jumbled bliss you place your thumb
On the little plunger. The needle knows its way
To your malleable misguided mind that
Conjures the image of the white lines on the table
Looking like road surface markings.
Now it seems that your trip is only one-way.
Once more the impossible colours explode into life:
Those psychedelic blossoms which you comfortably
Let run wild, just as they allowed you to do four years ago in
That Parisian hotel room. You ruminate on your new habit,
Glancing indifferently at the revolver inked on your forearm.
Yet you know that your deadly game of Russian Roulette will soon end.
You know it hurts, the way their words sting.
They think they know that everything is wrong, and nothing is right.
And wonder how they became hypnotised by
Your lies that you spill everywhere in fragments of warped linguistics;
It must be strange to think that these controlled substances
Are in fact the devilish imps controlling your pliable puny brain,
And that those spectral cyclones in your head cannot heal
The scars you gave to a broken-hearted family.
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