It's been days. I don't know what I've eaten. It all ends in the toilet anyway, in bits and pieces of idle vomit floating in colors of anorexia. Days and all I do is drink. Cocktails to camouflage the problem. The hottest spots in town are no place for a junkie, so it's spoonfuls of coke in the bathroom, snorted, and the sudden babies are all aborted, and amidst these sordid images, I am courted. One lost spirit who believes he wants to marry, tries so hard, to pluck the thorns off my body. thinking maybe if they're gone, I can be his. He sits: pluck, pluck, pluck; thunderstruck, the heroin swimming in his blood. Fuck. I just met him a couple of days ago anyway. He filled me with upstrokes and downstrokes for a day. It was beautiful really. Two sleek bodies, dancing in the smell of carnations and needles protruding out of arms, lost for a time, in nothing. In nothing and I awoke to find I was nothing, but a speck of light, drinking gin whining in a sofa, sitting with a dolphin making a bargain: "I'll blow all night and you can brush my skin" my skin is fire in nothing. My body is a thorn in nothing. And heroin makes me water of a broken fountain A beauty drying too soon glowing flowing into nothing.