like mother like daughter.
that kind of crippling feeling that tightens the heart
makes every i say become a mess in my mouth
a tangle of words i cant quite clench out from behind closed doors.
a shitty end to a shitty life my mum would say
if she could see me now,
sitting on a dirty mattress in an empty room, window cracked and bleeding grime
well, that's if she hadn't od'ed when i was four. heroin.
f/u/c/k
i feel my lungs turn to concrete, they leap atop my heart
veins crawl like snakes through my skin
cigarette burns jewellery on my flesh - mottled purple.
there's a boy outside. a baby.
crying down on the streets like a homeless man trying to sell those magazines.
'the big issue'
nobody ever listens; not to another deadendsoul defenceless on a street named 'back in time'.
leaning walls, running sweat down their bumpy outer ridges, haven't changed since the 1800's
and if they could talk, like all poets - i wonder what they'd say.
they'd probably say
"well, sweetie, you ain't no poet."
god damn, reminds me of my father. ripping up my sketches of the naked women, telling me i ain't no artist.
the boy starts up again, a wail like a police siren,
begging someone to care, a pair of lungs drowning in the smoke exhaled from grimy windows cracked open wide on every avenue.
i contribute, poke my head out the crack in the glass, relinquish the feel of a stray piece of glass drag along the skin behind my ear
hear the trickle of red down the skin,
another scar for my collection
another hit to my self-worth.
a drop of blood rolls down the pane, bleeding out on the sides,
splashes down to the pavement where the baby is crying.
my blood turns black-blue
matching the bruises on his skin like a chameleon.
he sounds like an ambulance,
except he's calling for help
and the paramedics refuse to come
a women in high heels throws her head out the window and i watch it bounce down down
the side of the brown building like spiderman
she shouts profanity like a mother should shout love,
passionately, truly
with a guide to self medicating in one hand
and a phone call to luxembourg in the other
she's going nowhere
but her head continues to roll, eyes popping and filled with gravel,
[see no evil.]
i turn back inside to the scratches from animal claws on the walls, a few on the ceilings, and see my bloodied stumps for fingernails, desperately seeking in the dark.
i take another lie. inhale it up my nose, turn down the volume in my head and remember the old stereo i stole from the dump,
never worked but i could pretend
and it's better then actual noise when only i can hear it in my head.
back outside the baby boy screams like jesus on the cross,
redeeming himself for his wrongs,
a little boy of four.
already sinned for his mother's act of creation.
windows slam like drums across the street and i hear screaming from next door
jesus from hell persecute this evil, though you are only but a boy.
church could never excite me this much
even with an ounce of weed and my aunts pudgy fingers passing me the money from the donation plate.
damn these memories are spider webs and every time i dive back in i'm tangled in the past again
can't remember who's alive any longer,
we're all dead in this street anyway,
pale and gaunt and hollow and lifeless
and GROANING anyway.
no life in us when heroin takes it all away.
like mother like daughter.
who is the baby's mother, whose son is he
down on the street like a air raid siren
calling all those with a death wish,
rescue this boy.
i fall from my window like god.
does this boy want to be saved?
as bombs smash the life left in my head, does this son want to be alive?
can i save my son like my mother couldn't rescue me?
both four years old, but my mother od'ed.
will i?
another year,
another cake,
another age.
5. the worst is over. i cant make my mother's mistakes now,
because she didn't make it this far
like i have.
this isn't going to be like mother like daughter.
not anymore.
