The Spoon. 

The spoon is on a pea-green book.
The wrap lies open on the mattress.
The works are ready beside the blade
with the wire, the lemon, and the matches.

This ritual sequence on a scag-coloured carpet
is waking the dreams I have wanted all day.
At the end of the function and tension, the hit;
my tendrils of sun-mist will wisp me away.

The dreams have carried me away! The book
is too far from the bed, and the sequence
is in disjoint. I grab the book.
I see the spoon's quick flicker with shock.
I forgot I'd put heroin in it!

The spoon cavorts, but drawn out slow
in a long bright moment of now.
A fantail fountain hits the dust,
perfectly lost in this filthy carpet;
even snorting or blade-scouring a pathetic lost cause.
My surrogate sunshine has gone out.
There's a bitter chill tonight and that's just hard fucking luck.
And there's a long hard edge on the dawn.