The needle bleeds.
Pulsing arm reacts and screams.
I feel its numbness. A warm honey fills my mind.
The visions roll.
I see the end of life. Rejoice.
Slowth of thought. I smile at the initial memory of that night.
The golden tube. A tunnel formed of love.
Like sex which smiled, though substance danced.
I pricked myself. Though perhaps she’d stabbed my arm.
I cared no more. My slumber undermined her hot advance.
I slid towards the floor. My brain pulsated, a steady rhythmic drum within the party of my mind.
I could not dance. Nor stand erect as she applied herself to sensual play.
I laughed at her, though my lips curtailed themselves in still & forlorn sensation.
I stared at it. The needle which plagued my arm with pain. Or pleasure. Or maybe post-dramatic penalties of play.
I laughed again – within my skull – at the jest & wit of which I wrote.
The night passed by.
By early morning I had woke.
& dreams of sexual violence & naked ambition with the neighbour’s daughter had turned to peace.
I arose with eyes of sunken solitude. & smiled a weary sigh.
The girl beside me was alone & naked, her perfect body dead.
I kissed her lips & combed her hair, admired her slender form.
I withdrew the needle & wiped off blood, I placed within her hand.
& stumbled home my friends too quick, with secret never told.
That girl had died, my spirit too & thoughts were never shared.
& so tonight I tell the world, my lust for her had killed.
A dedication spent that night, high & sold to hell,
But silent death was her’s instead & never did she tell.
~ a night of needles & strange intoxication. Or was it just giving blood?
© ed simkins