Cold Scoring – The Poem
I paced the streets with desperation gnawing
my every cell; the smack supply had dwindled,
pure need now drove me to go out cold scoring,
accosting homeless alkies was not simple.
I offered money to help my misery,
his pupils were bee-sting small and he said
‘I’ve been off drugs for years my friend, literally’
I looked at the dirty ground turning red.
My legs were driven despite feeling ill;
I was soon 10 big issue sellers down,
occasionally offered weed, but still
no hint of the anesthetising brown.
That sweet brown running snake,
through the foil-gleamed silver landscape,
that blissful free state,
left by numbing sweet smoke,
it’s like caramel in my lungs
and perfection at a stroke.
The swings were still in an empty playground.
I met two lads who knew a certain flat
where men would inject an evil compound;
the women driven mad from smoking crack.
Back home, my body soon was slumped with nod.
The sweet illusions bloomed in my syringe
and hell was waiting down the path I trod
with nothing left of me after this binge.
So many deaths that happen all at once,
no need to care. Fuck it. I’m out to lunch.