Pain and pleasure is what my writing’s made to measure.
My addiction doesn’t show symptoms of the drought of bottles,
savings lost, crushed needles underfoot, or memory loss.
It is present in one, at the same time, infinite choice:
Nature’s oxeye daisy of blessed, cursed, blessed, cursed,
me with untold selection, this double edged sword,
that I will either conquer with or am due to bleed out from.
Remember when I first copped from the Wu,
many years back from their Ben & Jerry operation;
“French-vanilla, butter-pecan, chocolate deluxe,
even caramel sundaes were scooped up.”
Roman columns or Brooklyn beams?
With either climb they reach, lead up too,
a splendid spill, sweet smell, crescent swell.
A cyclone pulling me closer,
travelling in circles, continuous cycles.
A vice encouraged, learned,
to only be trapped,
held in v(i)se.