04-06-2013, 06:08 AM
DETOX
I LEAVING
Today is another drunken morning, but
the night before yesterday I had
reduced my dosage to 25 %:
I slept for one hour and felt mildly euphoric.
Shower but do not shave: but put on
expensive after shave and a freshly
washed t-shirt plus jeans,
brew coffee and take my meds.
You can tell, I am serious about
turning my life around today.
I take a mini-sip of left-over rum,
fasten my belt and leave the house.
I am first attacked by cold sweat
after my 10 minutes walk to the drugstore,
where I buy tiny bottles of alcohol.
I feel shitty mounting the subway.
I have meticulously calculated the measure
of time left between getting out of
the sub and entering the clinic: 30 minutes.
In the clinic’s park I have to wipe the sweat
out of my face again and enjoy the icy wind,
feel paranoid, smoke and carefully
suck the drug from the can. I get nervous.
I need another smoke and a tree to hold on
to get in control of my wounded stomach:
No time to puke. Someone left a bag on
one of the benches. I notice but ignore.
With guilt and shame and a frozen face
I walk on. AND GO IN
II ENTERING
I know, the clinic was a house outside the main tract,
about a 10 minutes’ walk away, so I slander
through the major building rather relaxedly still.
The whole hospital is on strike but I think:
for us, addicts in constant emergency the docs
will make an exception: And they would have!
Still am comfortably in time when I stand
in front of the detox clinic. Roll and light
a pure-tobacco cig. A guy steps outside
the building, smokes too nervously, mutters
whatever we mutter when we confront the truth once more:
self-victimization, self-humiliation and the diff:
It is a constant struggle - believe me –
between giving up in isolation and begging
for help. “You don’t make it but you would like to?
What’s holding you back? A long-gone father, you say?
A little rape back ages? Come on! Is it fiction or fact?
And others understand and others cry with you
And you leave them all behind to
get raped by the drug again.
I cannot prove anything but my suffering.
III INSIDE
I ascend to the first floor sharing the
elevator with Mr. Nervous Alcoholic,
the mutter-man. Out of shame we ignore
each other as if we did not know.
As soon as we get out he disappears.
I follow the corridor, the sweating starts again.
There is a small row of seats, 8 to be exact
just in front of the glass cube behind which
the nurses work. I curse myself for not
having drunk more. The sweating is annoying.
Vis à vis my chair sits a young black-haired woman.
From time to time she lifts her pretty face
and sinks her brown morphine-veiled eyes
into mine. A nurse approaches me. There is,
she shrugs, no consultation today, we’re on strike.
She takes a painful closer look at me: Cold sweat!
Withdrawal! – I say, I don’t know. Wait, I’ll see
to get you a doc. The brown-eyed girl smiles at me
and I know I’ll see her again.
I try to ignore her by reading the pamphlets
strewn across the chairs: We’re on strike but
for detoxing call this clinic or that. I know all
of the 5 clinics mentioned. In case of emergency call.
A guy approaches, his body a sigh of contempt,
the only thing I might like about him would be
his addiction. After some rambling he leaves.
I still sweat and want to get out. I’ve been
sitting here for 20 minutes. …
I LEAVING
Today is another drunken morning, but
the night before yesterday I had
reduced my dosage to 25 %:
I slept for one hour and felt mildly euphoric.
Shower but do not shave: but put on
expensive after shave and a freshly
washed t-shirt plus jeans,
brew coffee and take my meds.
You can tell, I am serious about
turning my life around today.
I take a mini-sip of left-over rum,
fasten my belt and leave the house.
I am first attacked by cold sweat
after my 10 minutes walk to the drugstore,
where I buy tiny bottles of alcohol.
I feel shitty mounting the subway.
I have meticulously calculated the measure
of time left between getting out of
the sub and entering the clinic: 30 minutes.
In the clinic’s park I have to wipe the sweat
out of my face again and enjoy the icy wind,
feel paranoid, smoke and carefully
suck the drug from the can. I get nervous.
I need another smoke and a tree to hold on
to get in control of my wounded stomach:
No time to puke. Someone left a bag on
one of the benches. I notice but ignore.
With guilt and shame and a frozen face
I walk on. AND GO IN
II ENTERING
I know, the clinic was a house outside the main tract,
about a 10 minutes’ walk away, so I slander
through the major building rather relaxedly still.
The whole hospital is on strike but I think:
for us, addicts in constant emergency the docs
will make an exception: And they would have!
Still am comfortably in time when I stand
in front of the detox clinic. Roll and light
a pure-tobacco cig. A guy steps outside
the building, smokes too nervously, mutters
whatever we mutter when we confront the truth once more:
self-victimization, self-humiliation and the diff:
It is a constant struggle - believe me –
between giving up in isolation and begging
for help. “You don’t make it but you would like to?
What’s holding you back? A long-gone father, you say?
A little rape back ages? Come on! Is it fiction or fact?
And others understand and others cry with you
And you leave them all behind to
get raped by the drug again.
I cannot prove anything but my suffering.
III INSIDE
I ascend to the first floor sharing the
elevator with Mr. Nervous Alcoholic,
the mutter-man. Out of shame we ignore
each other as if we did not know.
As soon as we get out he disappears.
I follow the corridor, the sweating starts again.
There is a small row of seats, 8 to be exact
just in front of the glass cube behind which
the nurses work. I curse myself for not
having drunk more. The sweating is annoying.
Vis à vis my chair sits a young black-haired woman.
From time to time she lifts her pretty face
and sinks her brown morphine-veiled eyes
into mine. A nurse approaches me. There is,
she shrugs, no consultation today, we’re on strike.
She takes a painful closer look at me: Cold sweat!
Withdrawal! – I say, I don’t know. Wait, I’ll see
to get you a doc. The brown-eyed girl smiles at me
and I know I’ll see her again.
I try to ignore her by reading the pamphlets
strewn across the chairs: We’re on strike but
for detoxing call this clinic or that. I know all
of the 5 clinics mentioned. In case of emergency call.
A guy approaches, his body a sigh of contempt,
the only thing I might like about him would be
his addiction. After some rambling he leaves.
I still sweat and want to get out. I’ve been
sitting here for 20 minutes. …