Frankie Quinn with a poem from his expansive body of work.
Heroin
Ghosts tiptoe through fields of upturned needles
Avoid wounds injected nagging emptiness
Fettered sockets priced blindness around reddened
Sores vampires entice entry to where pain dissolves
On a teaspoon, it spits lightning boiling through veins of
Ridding skulled torturer to unchartered sterile place
Excited, money sweats on trembling palms
Given by do-gooders on an altar growls rumble through
Pitiless dealer with speed of hand magic happens
Tourniquet arrests blood on an endless carnival of pain
Drops escape to hidden feet left unwrapped and vile
At last sleep thumps at leaden lids numbness holds her
Crushes her longing unrelenting terror what soul
Should endure this childish cry while condemned mother
Allows headlice to consume her.
⏩ Frankie Quinn is a former republican prisoner who is now a community activist. He is the author of Open Gates, a book of poetry.
Vivid and frightening description of and insight into the hell of addiction. Frankie's best published poem on this weblog yet.
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