The Addict

Sleepmonger,deathmonger,with capsules in my palms each night,eight at a time from sweet pharmaceutical bottlesI make arrangements for a pint-sized journey.

I'm the queen of this condition.

I'm an expert on making the tripand now they say I'm an addict.

Now they ask why.

HY!

Don't they know that I promised to die!

I'm keping in practice.

I'm merely staying in shape.

The pills are a mother, but better,every color and as good as sour balls.

I'm on a diet from death.

Yes,

I admitit has gotten to be a bit of a habit-blows eight at a time, socked in the eye,hauled away by the pink, the orange,the green and the white goodnights.

I'm becoming something of a 's it!

My supplyof tabletshas got to last for years and years.

I like them more than I like me.

It's a kind of marriage.

It's a kind of war where I plant bombs insideof myself.

YesI tryto kill myself in small amounts,an innocuous occupatin.

Actually I'm hung up on it.

But remember I don't make too much noise.

And frankly no one has to lug me outand I don't stand there in my winding sheet.

I'm a little buttercup in my yellow nightieeating my eight loaves in a rowand in a certain order as inthe laying on of handsor the black sacrament.

It's a ceremonybut like any other sportit's full of rules.

It's like a musical tennis match wheremy mouth keeps catching the ball.

Then I lie on; my altarelevated by the eight chemical kisses.

What a lay me down this iswith two pink, two orange,two green, two white goodnights.

Fee-fi-fo-fum-Now I'm borrowed.

Now I'm numb.