Cocktail Carnations

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;
     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

 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
               into nothing.