I Am a Curious Yellow

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There is no romance in heroin addiction. The relationship forged is that between a whore and a punter. You pay your money, have your cold sex in the arms of a stranger and leave. Prostitutes do not call you back. Do not make demands on your body. I was always ill. Lurking in the background was my sickness. If I hadn’t shat myself that morning I was having a good day…no wiping arses with sponges, no flocks of sparrows flying out of my backside. I had lost everything twice over but never felt disgruntled. Loneliness and nightmares drove me on. It was the only option. If loneliness could be magnified a million times that was my life. Living on the underground, just to keep moving, scarcely daring to stop to urinate, always aware of the negative, sadder sides of man’s nature where seldom exists, the Holy vision. And maybe when they looked at me they saw themselves, a perfectly ordinary person having to lead a life dictated by addiction and crime…the barriers between us as perishable as the dwindling cigarettes they were smoking.