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Poetry

Drug Lords

i.m. Delwyn Jane Mooney (overdosed 2004)

Chris Mooney-Singh

We are the lords of drugs,
we are the thugs of hazard, 
the back-stabbing gang in the hypodermic laneway.
We wreck the beach party, we haunt the HIV bedroom.

We are your syringes — snakes waiting to strike,
lines of cocaine — the tingle on the back of the taste-buds,
and we are your mothers and fathers on weekend-alcohol binges.
We are what you inject and go to jail for.
Serving us, some of you will be hanged
until you snap like chicken-necks and flop
into the realm of the haunted.

XTC,
Special K,
Soap,
Roofies.
Chronic mood cookers bring coma, brain seizure,
club-drug entertainment on the way to the underworld.

We are the lords of drugs
We are the thugs of hazard.
We are the ones who laid waste
the broken body of a girl in the bedroom
among spilled pills like pomegranate seeds:
mister death mister death I’m coming down to sleep in your lap.

We are the ones who laid her out —
a mortuary specimen — eye-sockets staring,
neck twisted like a coat hanger.

You too try these latest rainbow tabs,
seven loaves and fishes, seven magical journeys.
We are the razzle, we are the dazzle,
bulldozing the senses, then disposing the bodies.
We are the lords of drugs,
playing with your desires.

I want you — come to me,
I need you — let me slosh you down with Bacardi or Jim Beam, 
let me love you, let me sniff — I’ll burn out my nostrils just for you.

You will be hooked, you too will be bereft.
There is no one left to love.
You are the angels who went astray.
And this is not heaven — there is just an oven.
Your world is a bubble of phlegm, a crack-pipe black with tar.
You are ours, dear consumers, the weak, the expendibles,
ugly ducklings who don’t fit in.

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