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After Heroin 2:16 a.m. Two street whores ignore the rain as though it were the familiar piss of some john washing away the dime store make-up off their sullen, swollen faces. They huddle together, stay warm, in glowing need for heroin. 2:28 a.m. Still no cab. Traffic splashes by in random uncontrolled spurts, like a 16 year old boy discovering sex for the first time. 2:35 a.m. This is day 7 of my alleged detoxification, and this soiled mattress lying limp on this worn wooden floor reeks a bit more of flesh than it once did. Sometimes I sleep to dream of mirrors but awake to only windows, as though this city were some extension of my soul, and like the cheap petty artist I search for a metaphor of self in the broken streetlights and trash scarred alleys... in the disembodied and disemboweled voices that grip me in sleep and pull me into these sweat drenched nights to watch two whores wait for a cab beneath this hotel window. 2:43 a.m. Seven days and I feel clean again, but I still don't trust myself... it somehow turned on me like a dropped stiletto in a gang fight. Turned and twisted like a secret whispered into the ear of a lover who doesn't need me anymore. But I have no lovers now. No friends. No enemies. Just demons with fangs like syringes and voices like drunk fathers, reminding me I'll never amount to shit. 3:01 a.m. Two whores drift like memories into the backseat of a yellow cab. I light a stale cigarette and fall into bed beneath the blinking cliche of a neon sign. There is a "vacancy" here.
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