But None of Them Feels Like Home

Speak not to me of addiction
or the taming of the shrew
romancing of a rock
or a swamp made in the sheets
with mascara on the pillows
and bricks in lieu of headboard
that never seem to stop them
from clawing at the wall.

I talk until I shouldn't
then drink until I can't.
What's a hardened criminal
but a man self-justified?
Face, without the body;
body, sans the soul;
spirited psychosis
runs through dainty veins.

This boor can work with none of these
sodomized aspirations
so sleeps instead with voodoo dolls
indulging in Palm Sunday.
Remember, kids
if nothing else
the lie within the rubber.
No Strings Attached--
there's no such thing
when speaking of a junkie.