So who's the real deviant?
Her raggedly drawn breath she used as a counter. One in, two out. Without looking she reached for her cigarettes, an unconscious realization that sleep was once again going to elude her desperate groping. The Marlboro Red 72 sat smug between her lips. Her smoking fingers were adorned with one tattoo for each, resting top to bottom along the natural path of growth. Essentially, they were the side posts aligning her cigarette perfectly center between her pale and bony fingers.
The permanency adorning her pointer finger was in the likeness of a black rose bud, all but one of the petals unfurled in a beautiful display of artistic detail. The ink taxed upon her middle finger? A smiling skull, with an ember of flame for a tongue and no eye sockets. Between the two, her cigarette was sparked and the whispers of satisfaction crept along her cheek and into her un-pierced ears. Trails of bluish gray smoke spiraled towards the ceiling, no breeze distorting the intricate paths traced between her lips and the trail's gentle destruction against the yellowing, leaky, roof. She always saw it as the gate between her view of a clear nights sky.
She opened her eyes.
For hours she chain smoked and drank. Her clothes began to dampen, her slight perspiration caused by inebriation. She rolled a blunt, Black Cherry packed tight with a strain of Afghani Kush; a personal favorite. Why not, she rationalized; she had already broken into her suicide store. She inhaled, releasing a phantom cloud only to retract her release of the small, milky white ball still connected to her lips like a tangible thought bubble.
Her pupils dilated, replacing the beautiful green that usually inhabited the space. She blew an "O" and snapped a heart into existence. With her pinky, she nimbly slashed through it at a diagonal. Briefly, a broken heart hung limp in the stale air, noticeable through the haze glowing in the moonlight unblocked by her window's broken shutters. All that remained was her syringe.
"Fuck it."
She crouched with her lucky cigarette hanging crookedly from the side of her pale rose colored lips. She unrolled the cloth containing her collection of fresh needles, and wisely chose the third method from the left. She attached this to her syringe, and removed the dark vial from its pouch to the far right of her line of needles. She loaded her device full with the hospital grade morphine she had acquired through her 'friend' Nancy who worked incognito as a janitor in the local hospital. She found the vein in the crevice of her elbow, gently pressed, and used her thumb to inject. Still crouching, she exhaled her last puff of nicotine. The butt fell from her lips as she allowed her body to finally rest against the wall. Her legs sprawled out in front of her and, as she sat leaning, noticed the irony that her cigarette had fallen perfectly in line with the others set so carefully across the floor. Luck. She closed her eyes, and allowed her shoulders to sink into peaceful relaxation, a slight run of blood smeared against her forearm.
Lying noticeably between the dying woman and her filthy mattress, spelled out over nights of chain smoking, were the words,
"Luna is free"
I back away from the hole in our wall, and sit alone in the ragged old red leather chair next to my bed. I take out a cigarette of my own and just sit there. Quietly. Stoned sober. It had been incredible to witness, this degenerative process from engaged to, well, disengaged. I hadn't even gone to talk to her. My hands seem to panic, skirting from my forehead back to tapping against my knees. This beauty, this momentous passage of idling, had been my life the past six months since she had moved in. Now it was over, and this constriction of unknowing terror was admirably compounding within my chest. I still sit alone, quietly, stoned sober, smoking a Paul Mall Blue with panicky hands and anxious fingers; though now my freedom to do so has become my sentence. My fascination, my solipsism, completely unsatisfied... yet here I sit, not twenty feet from the corpse of my own deviance.
Poetry by Phill
Read 797 times
Written on 2011-12-15 at 22:59
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
Deviance
Restlessly she tosses between the sheets of her floor level mattress. Aching for sleep, she keeps her eyes closed tight. Reopening them, even in the likeness of a reversed blink, would reset the cycle necessary for her dreamless sleep to alleviate this recent spurt of insomnia. Three nights had passed since she last received unconscious rest. Her friends, or what friends she had left, had long since abandoned their quests to help and simply delivered drugs as they were supposed to. I mean, they were dealers after all.Her raggedly drawn breath she used as a counter. One in, two out. Without looking she reached for her cigarettes, an unconscious realization that sleep was once again going to elude her desperate groping. The Marlboro Red 72 sat smug between her lips. Her smoking fingers were adorned with one tattoo for each, resting top to bottom along the natural path of growth. Essentially, they were the side posts aligning her cigarette perfectly center between her pale and bony fingers.
The permanency adorning her pointer finger was in the likeness of a black rose bud, all but one of the petals unfurled in a beautiful display of artistic detail. The ink taxed upon her middle finger? A smiling skull, with an ember of flame for a tongue and no eye sockets. Between the two, her cigarette was sparked and the whispers of satisfaction crept along her cheek and into her un-pierced ears. Trails of bluish gray smoke spiraled towards the ceiling, no breeze distorting the intricate paths traced between her lips and the trail's gentle destruction against the yellowing, leaky, roof. She always saw it as the gate between her view of a clear nights sky.
She opened her eyes.
For hours she chain smoked and drank. Her clothes began to dampen, her slight perspiration caused by inebriation. She rolled a blunt, Black Cherry packed tight with a strain of Afghani Kush; a personal favorite. Why not, she rationalized; she had already broken into her suicide store. She inhaled, releasing a phantom cloud only to retract her release of the small, milky white ball still connected to her lips like a tangible thought bubble.
Her pupils dilated, replacing the beautiful green that usually inhabited the space. She blew an "O" and snapped a heart into existence. With her pinky, she nimbly slashed through it at a diagonal. Briefly, a broken heart hung limp in the stale air, noticeable through the haze glowing in the moonlight unblocked by her window's broken shutters. All that remained was her syringe.
"Fuck it."
She crouched with her lucky cigarette hanging crookedly from the side of her pale rose colored lips. She unrolled the cloth containing her collection of fresh needles, and wisely chose the third method from the left. She attached this to her syringe, and removed the dark vial from its pouch to the far right of her line of needles. She loaded her device full with the hospital grade morphine she had acquired through her 'friend' Nancy who worked incognito as a janitor in the local hospital. She found the vein in the crevice of her elbow, gently pressed, and used her thumb to inject. Still crouching, she exhaled her last puff of nicotine. The butt fell from her lips as she allowed her body to finally rest against the wall. Her legs sprawled out in front of her and, as she sat leaning, noticed the irony that her cigarette had fallen perfectly in line with the others set so carefully across the floor. Luck. She closed her eyes, and allowed her shoulders to sink into peaceful relaxation, a slight run of blood smeared against her forearm.
Lying noticeably between the dying woman and her filthy mattress, spelled out over nights of chain smoking, were the words,
"Luna is free"
I back away from the hole in our wall, and sit alone in the ragged old red leather chair next to my bed. I take out a cigarette of my own and just sit there. Quietly. Stoned sober. It had been incredible to witness, this degenerative process from engaged to, well, disengaged. I hadn't even gone to talk to her. My hands seem to panic, skirting from my forehead back to tapping against my knees. This beauty, this momentous passage of idling, had been my life the past six months since she had moved in. Now it was over, and this constriction of unknowing terror was admirably compounding within my chest. I still sit alone, quietly, stoned sober, smoking a Paul Mall Blue with panicky hands and anxious fingers; though now my freedom to do so has become my sentence. My fascination, my solipsism, completely unsatisfied... yet here I sit, not twenty feet from the corpse of my own deviance.
Poetry by Phill
Read 797 times
Written on 2011-12-15 at 22:59
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
|
StillHoppin |
|
Blilith |
| Texts |
 by Phill Latest textsSomething Less Than PoetryScar Tissue Musings #349 Musings #328 Musings #327 |
Increase font
Decrease