At the needle exchange

[heslopian]

This is a nice little surrealist poem with a neat rhythm and a couple of plays on language I enjoyed.

At the needle exchange
I am enigmatic. - I don't know if this opener is really needed. It feels weirdly like a boast.
A cipher on a pedestal,
they riddle me with bullets.

Steri-Wipes?
Ci-tric?
Fil-ters? - This dissection of words creates a good trippy rhythm, reflective of the nature of getting high (I assume; I've never taken drugs, but as a reader a drug trip is what these lines bring to mind).

I ask for pins and sin bins,
whilst watching angelic hands
struggle with a silencer. - The use of "angelic" is extremely effective in this sentence, because it creates a pleasingly nasty contrast with the violence.
As they reload
I tell them about my friend.

A simple lie would gain their respect.

I tell the truth.

My words are met rhythmically
with six muffled gunshots,
"A - di - a - bet - ic - dog." = My guess is that this line refers to an excuse the narrator may or may not have given as to why he needs to exchange needles, but I don't know. I don't necessarily think that you should make it any clearer, though.



Note:
Pins is slang for needles/hypodermic syringes.
Sin bin is slang for a container for used needles. - I'm not sure that I should really comment on this as it's not a part of the poem, just an author's note, but in tandem with the piece I don't think that it's necessary. A lot of the poem is fairly esoteric already, so explaining two of the terms feels a bit pointless and anticlimactic to me.

Thank you for the read, ambrosial