Codeine: Parts 1 – 3

1.
pt. i: the come on

“the number one killer of youth,”
you said,
swallowing my prescription,
“is middle-age,”

2 sets
of twin satellites
scraped chalk
trajectories
down
to
our sunless
seas.

“do you think i’m plain?”

but you’re busy reading
the ancient texts
of your torn and bitten nails.

the mp3 murmurs to the drywall,
“true love is not nice.”

yeah fireworks magnesium sprinkle
over the charred coals of friday night
— an anonymous yet exoteric utility of Fernwood.

pt. ii: the come up

your pinched face
a yellow onion
in the fireplace
of your bald head.

wrapped in fur
to the eyebrows.

the song,
“you could really get it on.”

Marzipan (you): Mad? Cowgirl? Mad cow, girl?
Pyjamela (me): Listen, man–

aw, the weekend: from denim to corduroy
to the finer knit seraglio flannels

Marzipan: –Don’t call me “man”.
Pyjamela: Let’s take two more.
Marzipan: Each?

and over
in the breath
required,
“let’s leave this fucking
cunt
of a city.”

pt. iii: the come in

construction crews
blast new holes
in my neural pathways

(stumbling across
the old Xanax Pipeline).

things are pretty backed up

but the Somniferous Special’s getting through.

mix
the dope
with a lukewarm bath
of vaseline
or tartar sauce
and you get
Walpurgis Stew.
you
stare at my breasts
and tell tales of
the Lund harbour seal
— recumbent in an oil slick —

of the
Mystery of Goat Island
whereupon
your daddy died
like Neal Cassidy
between the ribs
of a beached and bloated mythos.

he planted dill & daisies
for the hearts of Powell River
(flowers for their vanished youth:
70’s kids sopped
into crummies,
fishing boats,
THE MILL;
the herb for making borsht
with their middling years).

in the tub
my hair
comes out by the swansful.

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