Wearied by all the world's fears, surrounded
by the dark as crypt cold. I am lost in
myself. I try to think of an exit but the
thought is vanished in despair.

If I am lost: why am I questioning
myself when I should be instead questioning
the way to Recovery?

Long humid tears have been rolling
down my pale unhealthy cheeks. A
mask of bliss has enlightened the brief
moments of laughter. Every inch I get to
myself is a step backward in my search.

If I feel despondent is because I didn't
have the skill to arrange a life deprived
of naked suffering. Yet the genius shines
on momentarily when the moon is opened to
the eyes of the blind and the crickets
whisper their arty plans against us humans.

Sex sicks me and the spirit burdens
me enough. The air is thick; too corrupted
to be respired, too seductive to be eschewed.

I am a legend within myself, a
twenty-six-year-weakend-old legend.
I roll the drums of unconsciousness each
night so that I can die and imagine all
the things that I forgot I should be.

Not only am I alone but also far
from the path. Succumbed to the deviating
music of cymbals and oboes played by
the Devil's seven hermaphrodites. This
rhythm wraps me up in a tinselled halo.
What is this beauty of black hooded claw
and stiffened tail with a horny hairy

Pain, only pain realises my existences.
Night crawls and lurches for the red cells
in my fluid. Stave off. Stave off all this
meaningless survival which my tread on
Earth has been reduced to.

Bats flown from routes in abrupt cliffs
announce the ominous continuity of my
questioning. But like Faustus I will never
greet indulgence and only the ecstasy of
tiredsomeness stokes my life up.

Help each, help each other. Hopping
from tulip to dandelion like the invented
grasshopper of a girl's nightmare. I
am not what I should be, yet I should
be what I am.

Tony, December '95.

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