Thursday, 6 November 2014

A Different Heroin Gene Barry

A Different Heroin

One morning she saw no roads.
Street-fatigued,
she stepped off the tram
on Nieuwe Binnenweg,
a yellow cirrhosis painted canvas
at last giving that notice
she had always craved.

There was a gnawing
at the heels of her trodden wish list,
that same torment from her
equally tortured childhood.

So she stroked
the undergrowth of her ego
and stepped through
I.V. lines, blow jobs,
fibrillation and innocence
that had been climbing for
14 tormenting years
and whispered to herself;

bury me up to my conscience
in a wood with no name,
leave the headstone unetched.

©Gene Barry

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