one night in the life of an hypodermic syringe on the lower east side, circa 1989
After the burst of pleasure,
a feeling of liberation and
bodily expansion, there comes
a new state, an aftermath.
That is the high.
Michael McClure. "Heroin," from Drug Notes
"Rememeber what the
doormouse said. Feed your
head, feed your head,
feed your head."
Jefferson Airplane-"White Rabbit"
The migration
to the outermost
himalaya of memory;
whose birds—all beak, sinew
and askew with anther and flower-
petal of bone—imbibe moisture
through moon-like nodes
attached to nasal passageways
accumulating like pollen. Gathering
snow is all static as it enters in
the form of a liquid, natural
extrusive. A sauce breathes like...
A friend pinned to a rock
on the other side
of the bed in
the apartment—an "asthma
attack" is occurring
somewhere to the east
of Beth Israel hospital
this side of one dirty-pair
sock footprints. The Fall
album cover on the powder-ash,
cigarette-butt strewn table,
littered with plastic envelopes,
newspaper articles, ads from magazines.
Other records, jackets strewn
like cards from a poker hand
thrown down in frustration—
The Cramps, Syd Barrett, Brian Eno,
Einsterzende Neubauten, Bauhaus.
From this last one, Daniel Ashe
sings through two stereo speakers,
"The bats have left the bell-tower,
the victims have been bled,
red velvet lines, the black box,
Bella Lugosi's dead...
I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead,
I'm dead..."
" Well, shut-up
and die already"
says a voice,
connected to two legs,
attached to a body,
named Adam M—
extended from the couch,
partially concealed by the
placement of the bulkhead
on the other side of
the room. Laughter.
"Tony, Tony are you
puking?" Back to
the "asthma attack"...
My friend Tony pinned
discretely beneath one
of the stainless steel piers
of the Manhattan Bridge,
somewhere between
the crumpled ruins
of a rusted medicine
cabinet, a hospital gurney,
and his latest
heroin overdose.
Seen from inside
the window of
the same apartment
on the lower east side,
a shriveled clay figurine
crumpled on the floor—
several discrete lumps
of vomit, like creamed-corn,
dribbling
onto his shirt
from his mouth,
opened like
a squeaky transom;
or, an oven door.
He is not
breathing
much.
In and out of
a micro dream,
a voice speaks,
disembodied
like a headless
pigeon,
about
" blood on the dropper".
and
"cleaning his works with
vinegar."
And then
like a ritual
arcane, someone
will stand him up on his feet—
his unemployed puppet body,
will begin to move
on its own.
At first
just a series of spasmodic jerks,
until the smoothing
effect of
a cup of coffee
(multiplied exponentially)
brings him back to
himself.
This,
a partly melted snap-shot
from a lewdly lived life:
Just a few friends
listening to Bauhaus,
vomiting separately,
and getting off together.
We help each other
out here.
JZRothstein (edit) 6/30/2012
Final Edit 7/31/2012
Poetry by Jeffrey Z Rothstein
Read 546 times
Written on 2013-10-07 at 19:50
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
The Migration
The Migration.After the burst of pleasure,
a feeling of liberation and
bodily expansion, there comes
a new state, an aftermath.
That is the high.
Michael McClure. "Heroin," from Drug Notes
"Rememeber what the
doormouse said. Feed your
head, feed your head,
feed your head."
Jefferson Airplane-"White Rabbit"
The migration
to the outermost
himalaya of memory;
whose birds—all beak, sinew
and askew with anther and flower-
petal of bone—imbibe moisture
through moon-like nodes
attached to nasal passageways
accumulating like pollen. Gathering
snow is all static as it enters in
the form of a liquid, natural
extrusive. A sauce breathes like...
A friend pinned to a rock
on the other side
of the bed in
the apartment—an "asthma
attack" is occurring
somewhere to the east
of Beth Israel hospital
this side of one dirty-pair
sock footprints. The Fall
album cover on the powder-ash,
cigarette-butt strewn table,
littered with plastic envelopes,
newspaper articles, ads from magazines.
Other records, jackets strewn
like cards from a poker hand
thrown down in frustration—
The Cramps, Syd Barrett, Brian Eno,
Einsterzende Neubauten, Bauhaus.
From this last one, Daniel Ashe
sings through two stereo speakers,
"The bats have left the bell-tower,
the victims have been bled,
red velvet lines, the black box,
Bella Lugosi's dead...
I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead,
I'm dead..."
" Well, shut-up
and die already"
says a voice,
connected to two legs,
attached to a body,
named Adam M—
extended from the couch,
partially concealed by the
placement of the bulkhead
on the other side of
the room. Laughter.
"Tony, Tony are you
puking?" Back to
the "asthma attack"...
My friend Tony pinned
discretely beneath one
of the stainless steel piers
of the Manhattan Bridge,
somewhere between
the crumpled ruins
of a rusted medicine
cabinet, a hospital gurney,
and his latest
heroin overdose.
Seen from inside
the window of
the same apartment
on the lower east side,
a shriveled clay figurine
crumpled on the floor—
several discrete lumps
of vomit, like creamed-corn,
dribbling
onto his shirt
from his mouth,
opened like
a squeaky transom;
or, an oven door.
He is not
breathing
much.
In and out of
a micro dream,
a voice speaks,
disembodied
like a headless
pigeon,
about
" blood on the dropper".
and
"cleaning his works with
vinegar."
And then
like a ritual
arcane, someone
will stand him up on his feet—
his unemployed puppet body,
will begin to move
on its own.
At first
just a series of spasmodic jerks,
until the smoothing
effect of
a cup of coffee
(multiplied exponentially)
brings him back to
himself.
This,
a partly melted snap-shot
from a lewdly lived life:
Just a few friends
listening to Bauhaus,
vomiting separately,
and getting off together.
We help each other
out here.
JZRothstein (edit) 6/30/2012
Final Edit 7/31/2012
Poetry by Jeffrey Z Rothstein
Read 546 times
Written on 2013-10-07 at 19:50
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
