Until the Cling-film is Empty

There he lies,
In his flat with the open door,
Beneath the table with the telephone upon it.
It is about to ring.

There he lies,
Head on a cloud pillow
Of temporary amnesia and linoleum.
He’s about to wake.

See his eyes open,
Pupils shrink with the
Revelation of light.
See his eyes open,
Pupils then expand
With the realisation of plight;
It’s all still here.

There he lies,
Listening to the repetitive ring,
Clutching his rock wrapped in cling film.
He’s about to open it.

There he lies,
Using the same pierced drinks container
And the same source of flame.
He’s about to inhale.

See his eyes close,
To concerns he disappears
Out of confusion he sinks.
See his eyes close,
As dream and reality swap places
There is no need to think,
Anymore.

There he lies,
In his flat with the open door,
Beneath the table of the telephone.
Waiting for a call.

There he lies,
Head on the hard floor,
Pressuring his temple for change.
But he can’t hear,

And he won’t until the cling-film is empty.

A day in the life of a crack addict in London

Written February 2010

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