Junked up Prose

King Fix

"And when the blood begins to flow, I really don't care anymore." - Lou Reed

"Mmm, feels pink" said the Sweet Taste Nazi of Flatbush. "Do you take grass with your smack?" I asked. "Yes dear" replied the Taste Nazi.  

You've gotta try this new stuff - Is it pure? - It's as pure as you're gonna get around here - That's what everybody says -no one wants...

no one wants to tell you their stuff ain't pure - but the truth is - everything is cut with something these days - Can't trust the street... 

gotta know 'A guy'/someone always 'knows a guy.' Until they get busted or they over extend their credit &then they're askin if YOU know a guy

Ms. Kaye arrived to Tea early; and finding us with our pants down & needles in our arms she promptly started beating us with our own belts.

Awkward situation for us all:the pile of powder on the table/our broken promises strewn about the floor & her dashed expectations floating- through the air.

She went to the window and opened it. A breeze came through, blowing away our life savings. I managed to vacuum up about 2/3 of our take.

We'd have to cut it a lot more than usual.

An unexpected knock on the door was never a good thing. Could be the cops, could be a nosy neighbor, could be a homicidal maniac.

So we started cutting and pasting bits and pieces of different lives together.

The wet mooch turns out his eyes - looking for his friend to feed him some more brown liquor. Falling over tired hobos in the corner he... scrapes his knee.

His plump face, usually white from the sickness, grew a bright red, and popped like a french balloon. Another head grew out of his neck- and fell off his shoulders onto the ground. His eyes blinked.

The junk was flowing through me now/Advantage of my body may have been taken

Every now and then,refugees from the old apartment came around looking for a fix/I wouldn't help em/I wasn't in the business of fixing fools

The only fool I fix is myself.

Lone hobo looking for a new groove bangs at my window. I can't help him. Lonely writer looking for absolution at my table. Can't help.

The shit was really working good now.  Kim left and sealed us in with that 'dont you go anywhere till I come back' eye.  But after she left, we split anyway.

 and then the people broke in and stole my typewriter -

 

We walked; one headless junkie and one soulless writer, hand in hand - up 6th avenue, towards Tricky Jim's spot.

Jim lived in the basement of a perpetually stalled construction site. He worked the southwest corner of WashingtonSq...

Ya gotta understand, this was 1991, the only drug free zone in that park was the wooden playground in northeast corner of the park...

Jim would sit by the chess tables, pretending to bet on the games. We'd throw money down on the table/when a player moved his piece, jim would grab the money, pretending we had lost a bet on the player's move. 

Jim would throw us a rolled up piece of double bubble...as a consolation prize.

Inside would be a precocious little bag of the purest shit you could get east of the Mississippi/After a while everyone started calling him The Gambler b/c of the little ruse with the chess game and bubble gum. 

We'd sit in the old apartment and smoke cigarettes till r lungs bled.

 More on that wooden playground in the northeast corner of the park: I'm convinced that as a child, I committed manslaughter on the swing set

It was a normal afternoon... juice, animal crackers, Raffi on the phonograph - and a one block walk to the park. I was particularly fond of the swing set. I rushed for the 2nd to last open seat. These swings were made of steel. The same shit used for steel fences.

I was thoroughly enjoying myself, swinging for the stars, ever higher and higher with reckless abandon, when out of the corner of my eye I spot a small girl, walking in front of the swings. I wished I could have stopped gravity, but unfortunately I do not have telekinetic powers;maybe for Khristmas.

The front of my steel rectangular swing seat collided with the front of this little girl's skull, sending her flying across the playground.

I was perfectly alright. There was blood on my Babar sweater. The girl's babysitter grabbed her body. The girl, no more than 3, did not move.

A trail of blood followed the pair to a cab by the arch. There was still blood on my sweater. My mother brushed it off like nothing happened.

Older and wiser, I now steered clear of the northeast corner of the park. It gave me an uneasy feeling. Meanwhile, I'd rub up against anyone in the village who looked like he might like to break open a vein.

The night presented endless possibilities. All I wanted was to not worry about tomorrow.

And I thought of moving to the north... the far north - where it's dark half the year. but I knew I'd have to go thru some sickness...

I decided against calling my guy.

I had enough to last me the week anyway - the next time i shot, my face melted off. I saw it on the ground and started punching myself in the place where I knew my face HAD been, but now was most definitely not - I couldn't feel my face.

Harder and harder I hit my fist in to what should have been my cheek bone - still couldn't feel anything.

I woke up black and blue and confused.

and my friendz r off somewhere without me/cuz they ain't really my friendz - all I needz the dropper and rope

He holds in the smoke long enough for his face to turn white - bloody nosed, head pulsing, lavender spotted vision - paradise

 I'm jealous of his hit.

tHE end