The Pen syringe

There is no sitting at a desk
As if there was a plan here
Work to work out on a screen
This is all too scrambled
And ad hoc
To write at a desk
This needs a twitching
Knee and any old place to scratch it down
Just the way it comes in any old way in an unplanned way on unlevel surface
There is no level surface
I have an old diet Dr. Pepper can I use for butts.
I fill it with water, then butts, then empty the stinky hazardous thing in the toilet.
The illusions of getting clean.
If I was an American I would shoot my TV playing in front of me.
The commercials need killing.
If you look at it this way:
You fill a pen with enough ink to do the job.
The way you would fill a syringe with just enough smack to accomplish the fix.
Then you use up all the ink, until the job is done. Till you’ve killed the pain.
And the beauty of it is that there is an end in sight.
There is only so much ink.
You hope you put in the right amount.
You can imagine the consequences of filling it too much or of trying to judge the exact need of your idea to be expressed.
You can limit it or be forced to milk it.
If ink cost as much as heroin, many of our problems would be solved.
But each pain that needs writing out carries a different load.
Only a hack would guess or manage the amount of ink needed per scribbling.
There is a fog tonight up on the country roads.
Scary enough to turn back and raise desires of safety.
Get back at any cost.
Jesus, if I can back to the Lakefront with all the lights and SUVs and boutiques, I’ll do anything.
I’ll subscribe to a fucking video game without stopping for food.
Or smokes or pop.
I won’t even check for the messages that won’t be there or play mood altering music. I just know there will be no safety.
Even taking pills will just put me to sleep and start the whole shitty game again tomorrow. Except there isn’t a tomorrow. It’s a goddamned repeat of today.
A repeat – a re-run.
Without commercials that don’t pay me for air time in my head.
Everything is draining out, like this ink. And the only good news is that there is only a finite amount of ink and a finite amount of time until everything runs out.
This nightly lay-me-down is a cruel habit. It’s a failure to stay awake.
I would normally or, at least I certainly did in the past – find a lot of references to spice this up. Names. Quotes. Mentions of music and cracked open images to feed on.
There is no food or sensory input that gets in nowadays.
No metaphors. No analogies. No allusions.
Just the ink running out.
The finite body will conk out, too.
And this is a race. To use up the fix before I can't even twitch anymore.
This is the kind of pen that you can't see how much ink is left.
That’s the beauty of a syringe.
You can see the capacity, you see how much of the dope solution goes in. and you FEEL the progress of the liquid going down the barrel till it's all gone.
Then it's over - for the syringe, that is. The pain is on its way to gone.
This is a crooked game I'm playing, pretending this pen is a syringe - an instrument of relief, of pain-killing.