Anna O

Allegory of a Junkie

We’d gather at this one kind of a house,
more of a gallery hub

The underground nest of maveric philosophers,
wacky artists, dropout painters, depressed poets
and their drunk ass dads, sometimes,
hoping to get laid with any kinky tutee.

Red lights and ambient music,
antique pieces of furniture,
some broken, some taped,
Some broken on purpose

Surreal paintings and interrupted thoughts
written in lipstick and manicure
Strains of paint and booze on the couch,
an old dusted piano at the corner,
a ripped lampshade from a white bedsheet,
piles of best books one could ever find
And a large painting of many public toilets
would welcome us for the weekly poetry night.

There was plenty of good stuff
but we would bring our own, just in case.
That night, after reading his poem,
under the melancholic sounds of a guitar,
he stood up and left the room,
probably disgusted by his own pathetic life.

I was too careless after 3 shots of GHB,
which i mistook for some vodka or raki.
Enough, not to even question why it didn’t smell like booze.

Fishes were floating from one painting to another
and red eyes of amorphous creatures
were penetrating me right through.

I never paid that much attention
to what before seemed like scribbles of an autistic child.
I was awestruck, until i heard his faded voice
from the back of the bathroom door
and a white thin arm reaching for the knob to let me in.
There he was, drenched in his own vomit,
pale as dead against the wall painted in red wine
but making an effort to smile a bit
and spit those horrible words ” i love you”.

I felt like I could swim in this red sea of puke and piss,
admiring the aesthetic of a drunken miserable poet
who had already lost 5 years of his life
on a book which would probably never see the light.
But he loved me much, and i loved him for that.

Nobody was giving a damn about him,
but still preying on me like salivating hyenas over fresh flesh.
Called a cab and we drove to the emergency room.
The doc put the needle on his skinny arm,
with some good shit on it while I silently stood in the back.
I think, he needs some more diazepam: I told him.
He did coke also.. and, some other stuff..

I myself was sweating alchohool but looked pretty collected.
He gave me a suspicious look, doubled the dose
and disappeared behind the green sheets
of the hospital compartment.
Alex was still unconscious and I thought:
He’s sleeping at least.
I took out the needle from his arm,
put it in mine and i layed beside his pale cold body.

When the last honey drop was over,
i shaked him hard to wake him up
and we left the hospital, like 2 white ghosts,
running to find the only bar open at 4 am.

I heard, everybody had got sick that night.
We kept drinking beers and telling jokes
until the sun rose and threw a golden shade
over his still pale face.

2 days later, he left to Prague.
Not even booze and dope could drown
the pain of unrequited love.

He wrote me a poem which i hold dear
as a requiem of those cold decembered days.

Yesterday, Manxhi died.
In a car crash they told me.
Good, sweet Manxhi who’d take care of me
every time i would fall like dead
amongst the blood sucking hyenas.

I would go for dinner at them almost every night.
His girl would call me often because she needed help.
But, we didn’t make it.
I couldn’ t do much because i was in deep shit myself.

And here, Sweet Manxhii gone at 33.
I never felt worse but, that first month
he learned he had cancer.
His girl called.

She said: Manxhi is asking for you.
Don’t be a stranger.
It was February.
I promise I’ ll come, i said. I lied.
Not only did i not call,
but I dissapeared for months,
unreachable, dragged by my own shadow.

Until I later learned, he died.

As a friend of mine once told,
Drugs are no good anymore.