Tuesday, October 11, 2005

Hymn to the NARCS

The darkness was a comforting veil. streets lined with the usual yellow glow. The cedar bushes releasing the stench with there light dampening masses. There are shadows on every corner. The air cold with the first streams of autumn wind rustling the scabs on the trees about to be torn completely from the limbs.

Two men previously engaged in a brutal display of narcotic experimentation, strut. The heated arguments and engaging discussion long since had. Stories of despair told and heard. But not quite understood as far as origins. "It kind of gets annoying to constantly here about 'those' days."

"What?" Understood inwardly. There is a terrible sin in ones past. Not the action but the reliving it. Over and Over. Cars on the road should long since been stalled. Others up to no good. The man getting in his van. Poor soul. Work on a Sunday? Four in the morning? Or is it more sinister. The mistress lays sleeping, after the husbands "long day at work". Wife at home, kids in bed. Nothing is wrong with this picture. Right?

"My shoes are getting wet."
"Quit being a baby."

Little did he think of the of the others previous statement. "I don't like wet socks." Turned away as a useless phobia. "Ridiculous."

The house door banging on it's hinges after every return for just one more. Than the walks. Incessant. Two men. One drug.

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