Fancy a line?


Fancy a line?

It’s made from powdered blood
mingled with shit;
a condom bursting
in a smuggler’s gut.

And the smile of your dealer,
(that kind, trusted friend)
hides a trail of betrayal,
of enslavement, despair.

And the hit of the coke
is the thrill of a murder,
the high of a hitman
in drug war vendetta.

And the ghost in your head
that breathes paranoia
is the voice of the dead
who have died for your fix.

And soon as you bloat
(drinking deep for some silence)
there’s a struggling thought
you’re a murderer too.

So get out the blade
and chop it real fine..
Go on - rack it up:
be a crime not to.