god (for Thoughtjotter)

[Erthona]

"Claws for the Beast" inspired me to post this poem.

god
I hold my breathe.
I twist my tongue inside my mouth, as
I exert just the right amount of pressure on the syringe.
I push it down onto the cotton lying in the spoon.
I slowly pull back on the plunger.
My breath goes out as the fluid slowly steals its way up the hollow plastic shaft,
a release that is almost orgasmic: anticipation of what is to come.
I lay the needle carefully aside, not wanting to catch the point on anything and dull it.
I take out one of my several bandannas.
I quickly, but carefully, wrap it around my left arm.
I tie it in a slip knot that I can release by pulling it with my teeth.
My breath is coming faster now, short controlled breaths, in the top of my lungs.
I open and close my left fist.
I watch, fascinated, as the vein begins to rise above the skin.
I rub my finger up and down the vein, caressing it, as a lover would caress a nipple.
I pick up the paper square that encloses the alcohol swab.
I tear it open with my teeth. Removing the swab,
I run it up and down the vein. Ritualistically,
I clean and prepare it to receive the holy sacrament.

I am a fastidious acolyte, not because I am naturally so, but, at the moment,
I have the time, and the better vestments of my religion. At the moment,
I have sterile saline to wet down the powder.
I have clean cotton through which to strain it, and a sharp new syringe in which to put it. In the past,
I have used the water out of toilets to wet down the powder.
I have used cotton out of the butt of a used cigarette.
I have used my own spit to wipe the dirt off my arm.
I have sharpened a dull, much used needle, on a book of matches,
to get it sharp enough, to pierce my skin: a mini-crucifixion, stigmata from my god.

I need no Romans, nor a Pilot, nor a Judas.
I am a willing sacrifice, and I have sacrificed everything for my god.
I have been the lowly worshiper, begging for scraps, and
I have been the high priest. At those times, when
I have the powder, the other worshipers come to me.
They beg my blessing, willing to do whatever penance
I might set for them, so that they might receive the holy sacrament.
Women give me their bodies in whatever way
I demand.
They would give me their first born, if I required it. When
I have the powder,
I have the power of a god;
I can command anything, and my will, will be done. The followers of
my god are faithful, faithful unto death.
No other religion demands, or receives, such devotion.

I watch as the sterile water snakes its way up through the golden liquid in the hard,
hollow, plastic tube of the syringe.
I love to watch it rise slowly up through the yellowish oil:
oil transmuted from white powder, a transfiguration of the mundane into the ecstatic.
I take the needle, and gently, slowly, slide it into the vein.
I pull back on the plunger.
I see the blood spurt up into the pale yellow oil.
I pull the bandanna with my teeth, releasing the pent-up pressure from my heart.
I push the plunger down, discharging the yellowish liquid into the red pulsing blood of my vein.
For a brief and fleeting moment, as ether-vapor hits the back of my throat, as a surging wave rolls through my skull,
I come face to face with my god. We are joined in an ecstatic melding. Then,
I fall into the depressive after-glow of the union, already anticipating the next time.


–Erthona

[Magpie]

Excellent. Some of the tiny almost mundane details are the ones that say the most in many respects such as tearing open the paper square with your teeth. The tiny details that all go into making up the ritual.
The observations are very accurate. Poems about drugs are all too often written exclusively for users and very rarely bridge the gap to those who aren't. This can be read by either and still be understood.
Thanks for the read.
Mark

[Thoughtjotter]

"Claws for the Beast" inspired me to post this poem.

god
I hold my breathe.
I twist my tongue inside my mouth, as
I exert just the right amount of pressure on the syringe.
I push it down onto the cotton lying in the spoon.
I slowly pull back on the plunger.
My breath goes out as the fluid slowly steals its way up the hollow plastic shaft,
a release that is almost orgasmic: anticipation of what is to come.
I lay the needle carefully aside, not wanting to catch the point on anything and dull it.
I take out one of my several bandannas.
I quickly, but carefully, wrap it around my left arm.
I tie it in a slip knot that I can release by pulling it with my teeth.
My breath is coming faster now, short controlled breaths, in the top of my lungs.
I open and close my left fist.
I watch, fascinated, as the vein begins to rise above the skin.
I rub my finger up and down the vein, caressing it, as a lover would caress a nipple.
I pick up the paper square that encloses the alcohol swab.
I tear it open with my teeth. Removing the swab,
I run it up and down the vein. Ritualistically,
I clean and prepare it to receive the holy sacrament.

I am a fastidious acolyte, not because I am naturally so, but, at the moment,
I have the time, and the better vestments of my religion. At the moment,
I have sterile saline to wet down the powder.
I have clean cotton through which to strain it, and a sharp new syringe in which to put it. In the past,
I have used the water out of toilets to wet down the powder.
I have used cotton out of the butt of a used cigarette.
I have used my own spit to wipe the dirt off my arm.
I have sharpened a dull, much used needle, on a book of matches,
to get it sharp enough, to pierce my skin: a mini-crucifixion, stigmata from my god.

I need no Romans, nor a Pilot, nor a Judas.
I am a willing sacrifice, and I have sacrificed everything for my god.
I have been the lowly worshiper, begging for scraps, and
I have been the high priest. At those times, when
I have the powder, the other worshipers come to me.
They beg my blessing, willing to do whatever penance
I might set for them, so that they might receive the holy sacrament.
Women give me their bodies in whatever way
I demand.
They would give me their first born, if I required it. When
I have the powder,
I have the power of a god;
I can command anything, and my will, will be done. The followers of
my god are faithful, faithful unto death.
No other religion demands, or receives, such devotion.

I watch as the sterile water snakes its way up through the golden liquid in the hard,
hollow, plastic tube of the syringe.
I love to watch it rise slowly up through the yellowish oil:
oil transmuted from white powder, a transfiguration of the mundane into the ecstatic.
I take the needle, and gently, slowly, slide it into the vein.
I pull back on the plunger.
I see the blood spurt up into the pale yellow oil.
I pull the bandanna with my teeth, releasing the pent-up pressure from my heart.
I push the plunger down, discharging the yellowish liquid into the red pulsing blood of my vein.
For a brief and fleeting moment, as ether-vapor hits the back of my throat, as a surging wave rolls through my skull,
I come face to face with my god. We are joined in an ecstatic melding. Then,
I fall into the depressive after-glow of the union, already anticipating the next time.


–Erthona

Wow, you had me worried there for a minute, thought I'd caused you to turn to drugs. First time I remember ever inspiring a poem. Even if was one about drugs. Well I have seen my name in a couple of porta jons, other than the spellin ,it was pretty good shit. Like, " IF i HAD a LOW iq I could BE a THOUGHTjotTER too"
Later'
R.T.