Hey, Heroin

Feels sick and dirty more dead than alive - I plow on in wide rotations around the steering wheel, rocking atop the suspension down country roads, sugardrunk off two dozen Arnold Palmers and the burning sunlight upon the fairway. 

I arrive to the pre-party a little before dusk in the orange light pouring down glass sliding doors and window-walls in the lakehome, a manor made of fake log siding and laminated wood furniture, all knotted and grained beneath thick sheens of sticky soft plastic.

I watched the last dregs of sunset disappearing into the water below the treeline across the placid lake, beer in hand while I swayed to gentle music. Our conversations picked up intensity as we all burned hotter in anticipation as the night drew down upon us. The last few cars were pulling into the long drive, pulling off into the gravel beside the asphalt.

True art conceals the means by which it was achieved. Music silences and our voices muffle. We climb the stairs and step behind velvet curtains, into empty rooms without windows. Take off our shoes and look over the chained woman on the floor. The doldrum steppe, from Texas to North Dakota, a wide vertical band of prey to parcel, little bits of the finest taken away, dispersed east and west to the true power’s dormant coastal hideaways.

She’s fucking a dog, sobbing limp pressed into the sticky wooden floor as I dip out, bored of the sweating doberman’s ruthless pumping, her flab twitching as she rocks back and forth with pain of its claws upon her back.

I crushed another pill onto a metal tray, scooping it out to a needle I burned off a lighter and spoon, falling half-sleeping backwards into the leather couch as my veins flood at 90 miles an hour. Classic rock is still drowning me in this anterior section of the newscaster’s mcmansion.

“No heroin?” He looks down at the pile of medical junk scattered onto my little territory, taking a seat beside me.

“Couldn’t find any. Wanna sit?”

“Nah. Just chilling.”

He sipped his beer. The songs droned on without end. I lost track of where one began, where one ended. Swampy rhythms caressed me into poisoned water, gasoline floating like cirrus clouds atop a sea of belly-up dead freshwater fish. Cans crack open. Sun rises and falls. I sweat. I vomit later, greasy pizza, expensive beer. The trees rustle. My rapist tears them down.