Best Syringes Poems
an early morning rise,
up the stairs
walk into the bathroom
in the sink
a small stain of blood.
less than a measure of yesterday
pulling a baby out of the womb into my arms.
on the sheets
a small stain of blood.
midwives wrap
my first born
snug and warm.
when her mother
finally gets her initial fill
she hands me this precious
new life.
i hold her knowing
there is nothing,
nothing!,
nothing...
nothing.,
nothing-
better then this moment!,
sweet scented perfection!,
lulls me into a peaceful bliss.
as she grows,
i spend my best times with her
and later her sister too.
my daughters own me
lock,
stock
and
barrel.
Ali?
i still see your
baby green eyes
reaching out to me.
i still smell your
childhood scent.
i can still taste
your hopes and dreams.
i can still touch
your youth as if it were now,
hear your tiny voice
"daddy i love you but you're my best friend too".
there is nothing,
nothing!,
nothing...
nothing.,
nothing-
better then this moment!,
you're now twenty two.
in the sink?
a small stain of blood.
in your bedroom
cocaine,
syringes,
...everywhere.
i clean
carefully picking them up.
i know you know you're playing
russian roulette with your life.
the drug convinced you
your life isn't worth living.
that's what drugs do.
they're that snake in the garden of eden
and you know eve ate that apple
and you know she sacrificed everything
for a fruit that would never taste that good again.
evil always presents itself as the only choice
while good seems too tough an alternative
but the truth is, the harder you have to work for it
the better it feels and it holds its feel with nothing to chase.
you can't hear me
the monster deeply
imbedded in you.
but Ali i love you
and Ali my heart weeps
and on my chest sits
a small stain of blood!
June 3 2015
Armand
Categories:
syringes, child, drug,
Form:
Free verse
The heat of the street more than you can take
hem hiked high above your bony knees
spread slightly apart so you can breathe
you sit in the stifling air on a stony stoop
there’s no relief from the panting
your face stained with sweat and bad luck
the heave of your heavy breaths work
against the sticky cling of your spandex dress
your ribs confined by the constrict of fabric
or maybe it’s the feeling of your shrinking skin
— yes it’s hard to breathe
you lick a salty trickle falling on your lips
teary eyes swollen from the violence of a trick
a john who didn’t see the beauty beyond
the vivid blue and red against white skin —
body like the American flag for Christ’s sake!
but in the back-alley filth nobody’s patriotic
scabs and bruises distract from needle tracks
people only see what’s on the surface
afraid to see a trembling girl
hidden beneath the grime of shame
and the crime of syringes and burnt spoons —
you’re afraid too — to see the girl in the mirror
a veiled child jailed behind the glass
no you only see the next knot tied around a pulse
your dope sick eyes haunted decades older
oh older than nineteen years of beaten misery
hollow dope sick eyes once long ago large
lustrous like black pearls
until found by furious fists
Categories:
syringes, abuse, addiction, drug, lost,
Form:
Free verse
I sit with the wall against my back. The wall refuses to move despite endless requests.
The door opens and closes its mouth, it wishes to say something, but nothing comes of it, only its letterbox chatters ceaselessly and without any deep meaning to it, drops hints every now and then.
The wall is annoyed with the door, but I am fed up with the noise. I stand to try and look out the window, but...
This place hushed in shadow. If only I can remember where I went this night, they did throw me in, away from light.
I roll up the walls like a Persian rug, smother the clatter of the metallic letterbox that tries to say goodbye in a thousand words. I hear its muffled apologies. I see a hundred neatly white, folded paper sheets fall at my feet, covered in coloured sentences.
I throw shadows at the wall, words at the door, colours at the ceiling; demons increase my estrangement in the small room, then the walls suddenly turn soft and white, my arms are bound behind my back.
Fog dissolves in faithful whispers. Demons grow faces and white clothes. Mouths with broad smiles talk in tongues (heard, understood), carry syringes and multi-coloured pills.
And day begins.
***
May 1, 2017
Copyright © Darren White
Categories:
syringes, allusion, anxiety, mental illness,
Form:
Narrative
iPhone Maniacs
crankshaft tendencies secure a brace of sly meatballs
truth daggers entice the worm girls with petite pastas
creature lilacs uproot themselves for pink dippity-do gels
white nylon ghost legs roam outer space in latex leotards
metacarpal syringes find porous outcries in the gloaming
crankshaft tendencies welcome the tilted exonerations
iPhone maniacs fondle frothing bananas mindlessly now
demon spiders ooze inside the crawlspaces wanting meat
cross-eyed priestesses suck on wax candles in the vestibule
black-robed choirs sing hangover music to the dribbling
rock music annihilations played by stoned dudes in shades
temples and taverns shake as the truth daggers hit earth
now the worm girls are dancing with the iPhone maniacs
Categories:
syringes, life,
Form:
Free verse
I AM HIV/AIDS
Saint Luke predicted me long time ago,
While the Book of Revelation warned you about me.
I am raging like a wild fire,
I am growling like a lion,
I have spotted you and I will pounce on you!
I am HIV/AIDS!
I attack people in all socio-economic and educational classes,
I cut across cultural and religious sects,
Graves and hospitals bear this testimony.
Despite significant medical accomplishments,
I remain incurable,
I am HIV/AIDS
From Africa to America, Australia to Asia and Artantica to Europe.
From Cape Provinces to Limpopo and Mpumalanga to Kwa-Zulu / Natal.
From Bekkersdal to Grobblersdal and Makapanstad to Marabastad.
From Sun Valley to Sun City and Mamelodi to Mametlhake.
From Witlagte to Langlagte and Suiwerskuil to Kromkuil.
I am reigning, I am HIV/AIDS.
Woe for the earth and for the sea,
Because I have descended in great anger to devour you!
I refer to you, who do not abstain,
I mean you there, who are not faithful,
And you here who do not condomise,
For I am HIV/AIDS.
Media has warned you,
Priests have preached at the top of their voices,
Politicians have cried loud,
Organizations and institutions have given you warnings,
But all these have come to naught,
Now I will kill you like flies, for I am HIV/AIDS
This is not news to you,
You will certainly catch me through unprotected sex,
Shared infected needles and syringes, contaminated blood,
And from an infected mother to her unborn child.
I then multiply in your blood, mercilessly attacking
Your defence system and leave you for the dead,
For I am HIV/AIDS.
You know this fully well;
You cannot catch me through
Sneezing, sharing toilet seats, coughing,
Or shaking hands with an infected person.
Behold, even if you are not infected,
You are affected by me, for I am HIV/AIDS.
Even though I am dreadful and mighty,
I will finally die and my heart is sore,
That will be when sense is finally knocked in your head,
That will be when you abstain from sex,
You remain faithful to your partner or condomise,
Remember, prevention is better than cure, for I am HIV/AIDS!
Categories:
syringes, fear, hope, sad, me,
Form:
Narrative
I replied to the beast, “ We are done!”
No longer will I be captive to your powder
of numb thought and emotion.
No longer will I need to have a special
cup, cotton, and spoon next to those
dirty syringes hidden in the vestment.
I will no longer be waking up sick,
scrunching in fits of pain and agony.
I refuse to be pale and thin anymore from lack
of sustenance. "O, Devil! I'm kicking you to the curb."
Today is the day that I am starting a new story.
I am turning my back on you, Morning Star!
With swift pride, I stomp you back to your unholy
glory where your pleasure is no longer my pain.
Don't think I am sorry as I am awakened from
misery. It is time now to find direction otherwise.
Today, O Devil, I take back reign of this
chaotic life mess I have created!
Today I will be strong, as you have tormented me
so long. No longer shall I be off track for today,
I am taking my life back!
Bursting free from these chains;
I am on the way to conquering the flames!
Categories:
syringes, addiction, recovery from,
Form:
Prose
How lovely, isn't
It, to have an 'off' switch, shotty wiring
And all,
And a presence lined up to ****?
They are always there
To cauterize the wounds of emotional castration
Without desire to examine
The blood pattern forensics,
Chalking the splatter up
To an affinity towards Jackson Polluck.
Tears are to the meek
As injury is to the bold,
Chastity is to pureness
As promiscuity is to curiosity.
And what
Supplemented activity relates to the character
Defect of an over-eager search for validation?
How surreal a menagerie constructed from
Syringes full of sunshine.
Currency crusted by blood in place of worth,
Hopeful scribbles of the pale and placid carrying
Small flecks of over packed bags under the eye
Can seem when sunlight filters through rose colored lenses;
How frighteningly apparent
Connect-the-dot freckles and
Spasms of the left cheek and
Teddy bear smiles and
Xylophone ribs and
Bits of skin ghosted from lips become
When refracted by a Narcissus pond—
How I m p o r t a n t,
How appropriate these sentiments:
Perfect companions for the rolled-up-carpet's journey
Of finding permanence along river bottom
Set into the silt and framed with waving algae:
A'voir, piggyback consistencies,
Meet oblivion in shreds
Blown out the back end of the skull
In the instant chapped lip worshiper meets collarbone shrine.
Such ready to leech services are no longer
A necessity
In the four hours of chemically enhanced rawness
Stuffed with bile and bruise and suck and lie
Hollowed of meaning,
Save for the proverbial cholesterol of hope clogged in pores.
But I awake in numbness,
Cold and invalid,
With my head pressed on Doubt's chest
And my fingers knotting in its own
Begging to be warm again.
Categories:
syringes, abuse, addiction, angst, courage,
Form:
Free verse
At one point, there's no cure for HIV/AIDS. The virus has affected not just the
African-American community, but the entire human race, as well. The whole world is
affected by that disease, even in the United States of America. Everybody knows that HIV
is passed on by having unprotected sex, using or sharing dirty needles/syringes, red
blood, breast milk containing the HIV virus in it, and blood transfusion. HIV/AIDS has not
only affected the adults, but the children and teenagers, as well. People who are living
with HIV/AIDS are always dying from that disease and it's a heart-breaker. The virus is
considered a life-or-death situation. I'm told that the doctors have been prescribing HIV
meds for the ones who were tested positive for that life-threatening disease, but they're
not sure whether all of the pills are to keep half of the human race alive. But there are
fund-raisers that will help the researchers and the doctors find the cure for HIV and
AIDS. But despite all o the hard work everybody has done to end HIV/AIDS, it's still
there. And if the HIV virus keeps affecting the other human race in the future, there's no
telling what bad thing might happen next. This HIV nightmare must end now. When will the
HIV virus be eliminated permanently? When will this end?
Categories:
syringes, on writing and wordsrace,
Form:
Epic
Little pebbles of broken glass, litter the streets, but the children run barefoot anyway.
Stubbing toes, contracting disease, playing with cigarette butts and discarded syringes.
The teens hide by the dumpsters, and quickly pump a vein.
A homeless man, jealous of the teen; instead, clenches his timeless drug of choice, a good ole' fashioned beer.
The sun still shines on the dust covered signs.
The streets crumble under the weight of America's ever increasing obese population.
Nothing has really changed, besides new acceptance of tried and true vices.
There’s always little kids causing trouble, teens using drugs, depressed old men drinking away their shame.
America is still the same great country,
Far superior than all the rest!
Despite their reduction in crime, lowered drug addiction rates, drop in homelessness, and constant upkeep of their buildings and streets.
Well besides all that... America is still Superior in Every way….
Categories:
syringes, addiction, imagery, slam, society,
Form:
Blank verse
Walking down Lehigh Ave in North Philadelphia where I used to play
Now I see teenagers playing with dirty syringes and caps of rock
Women strutting and screaming, "Hey," to the car slowing down to peak
Gotta get one more
And the mother cries as the police drag her son away
Cars with flats and smashed windshields litter the streets and gangsters
Old men walk fast and the litter races to keep up
Glass crunches underfoot as the junkie holds up his hand with two fingers
"Whatchou want old man?"
And the newspaper flies past swirling and the old man thinks it's the end
Police roll past and the thugmen walk casually in all directions
"Da Bien,"thugish screams and the dealers return
As she sticks the needle in her arm and pulls the blood through
She goes into a nod and her eyelids droop but a tear rolls on her freckled cheek
Its the tear that has power as her breath becomes close
She takes one last lungful and the tear rolls slow as the heroin takes her life
Categories:
syringes, death, old, old,
Form:
Narrative
On a pale July winter
I danced with the last Princess
In the middle of a sordid one room...
So long after sunset and so far from dawn
The smell of tomorrow burnt and tempting
I warmed my frozen fingers between her thighs
When life gave us more losses than victories
Our veins pumping arrogant blood
A drop in the ocean, a change in the weather
I had the hope her & I would end up together
I prayed we would grow grey together
Like cannibals reciting shrewed poetry
we danced to the rhythm of our conniving hearts
Our shivering skins shedding off of our ripe skeletons
I listened to her soft bones move like wet clay
I loved her more than sharks love innocent blood
Had her caged in the un-democracy of my frigid hands
Her shivering skin whispering dirty talk to mine
Her breath on my breath, taking the carbon from your lungs
Her fingers like syringes sucking oxygen off of my hemoglobin
We danced our sorrows to Ron Pope and Emelli Sande
Sundays we cuddled all day stuck on alphas
Taking steps back and looked at the bigger picture
Bound by no allegiances before the cliques and fake friends
We danced the pain to the curve
There were no distances we couldnt measure
No numbers louder than we could raise our voices
But we danced in geometrical fractions
Our feet uncaged from our ankle sockets
Ignoring the checkerboards in the morality of our peers
Like vampires running through mystical forests
We danced to the echoes of our miserable days
The anthems hummed by our oppressive government
That conspired to make us choose, need or want
My cataracts starred at her soul
Her soul spoke six languages to my heart and
We danced, with our faces like dominoes
Entagled like flamingoes at birth
Each moment became an equation of cosines
Before we lost it all, we danced!!
Categories:
syringes, africa, anniversary, pain, passion,
Form:
Ballad
The day has come, a smiling sun shines through bold bars, across the room to the door, ajar, projecting the bars on the door as if it is definitely and eternally closed to go out or come in.
The swirling, smiling haze of the past few days is slowly lifting. The rectangle of the open door has an attractive oblong shape the form of a mouth, telling me I am welcome to enter it - or is it leave? -
The bed has a mind of its own, it owns me, it thinks.... When I try to lift my arm, the bed stops me, stalling me, suspending my arm mid-air, by encircling my bony wrist, encompassing it with an iron grip. My peaceful plea, brought with ever so supportive but strong words that I cannot repeat here, has no result. The opposite is true, it does a sincere attempt to keep me there forever. Turning me into a spreadeagled, reluctant, foul-mouthed lover.
The door decides enough is enough. It squeaks, squirms and squeals, uttering a single, long lived OOOOOOOOoooooooooooo in a deafening ear-shattering pitch....
And in they run, the men in white, with their syringes and multi-coloured pills.
They beam benevolently at me, and then show the bed its rightful place: it's a bed, not a guard!
And shamefully it complies, clips open its claws, groans as I sit upright
Finally, the day begins!
***
May 4, 2017
Copyright © Darren White
Categories:
syringes, allegory, funny, humorous, mental
Form:
Narrative
A new day, a new exercise, a new function. Yesterday they said I resemble a bouncing ball, today I am, skimming and skipping. All round and affectionately kickable.
Somehow I have always known I am one. After all one doesn't become a ball overnight. It's a slow process. To start with, you pull your knees up, real close to your chest, and you start practicing. The walls however weren't very co-operative. They complained that my form was not completely round, some thing walls hate. A wall doesn't like objects with an edge, that's hurtful, it can bruise.
Therefore, my next mission, was to curve my spine so that my chin touched my breast bone. But still the walls complained, this time telling me that with my flailing twitching arms, I resembled an M&M from the TV commercial. That was a hateful remark, because these things look ridiculously unlike me. My globule-like ball will be the most huggable and innocent ball you've ever seen.
With a little torch I modified my arms in such a way that they neatly folded around myself, and finally I had become the perfectly round form the whole world already knew that I was.
Today I am your bouncing ball. The men in white clothes with their syringes and multi-coloured pills, have said so. The men honour me by kicking me around, and the walls finally stopped complaining. I am ricocheting and rebounding whilst I rejoice.
Everyone is happy now.
***
May 2, 2017
Copyright © Darren White
Categories:
syringes, allegory, analogy, satire, self,
Form:
Narrative
The stench of piss, vomit, and feces
immediately hit my senses
as I step over dirty syringes
and white, powdered filled baggies
the imperfect combination
of junkie and overdose
the drool dripping out of their mouths
and the sight of eyeballs rolling
into the back of heads
I see the hookers who parade around
in their birthday suits
who's bodies resembled that
of a skeletal corpse, and of course
who can forget the music
that shakes the exterior
of a cracking foundation
half-dead bodies moving and grooving
to the sound of a repetitive beat
but the irony out of all this of course
is the transaction.....
the meeting between men
the sell of deadly prescriptions
and the lost of finances
only to repeat its licentious cycle again
but this is nothing.... it's actually quite normal
in the stomping grounds of the ghetto....
Categories:
syringes, addiction, adventure, anger, conflict,
Form:
Free verse
What are these on my nose?
They're also hooked on my ears,
Oh of course it's my glasses,
So I can see things near.
What's that creaking noise?
It sounds like rusty hinges,
Oh of course it's my aching bones,
Time for steroid filled syringes.
What's that in the corner?
It's made of cold hard steel
Oh of course it's my Zimmer frame,
This old age thing is real.
What's that on my bedside cabinet?
There at nights mainly,
Oh, of course it's my teeth,
Grinning at me insanely.
When did all this happen?
I only blinked my eyes,
Now I have wrinkles,
I look like I'm in disguise.
What use is wisdom?
When you're too knackered to care,
Yes, I'm going grey,
But at least I've still got hair.
What happened to my youthfulness?
I used to be so sprightly,
Now I have to pee,
Ten times nightly.
I might as well accept it,
But I'm not impressed,
I'll just sit here with my rollers in,
I'm not getting dressed.
I'll grow old disgracefully,
Be who I've always been,
I promise to be a kind old dear,
Not a grumpy old fart, who's mean.
Categories:
syringes, age, growing up, growth,
Form:
Rhyme