<< current 
twisted

Twisted Pursuit of Happiness

---Truth, Drug Fiction, Photographs, Propaganda--



When your best friend

is

smack slammin'

crack blastin'

chronic crankin'

whiskey swillin'





Oops I Shot My Load, Your Honor



Angie sits in a lawn chair.

Her head nods forward back, tilts.

She moves spastic, like a string puppet, but with strings missing.

Bobbin', quirky, spas-m-ovements, only her arms and head seem to work.

Sick, strange she slouches in the chair. She's naked but for panties. Amazingly, the crack pipe and syringe in each hand don't fall.



It's Sunday morning six-o-clock, summer gorgeous outside, quiet and peaceful, no bugs, no traffic, in the trailer park off Van buren. There's a bunch of those trailers, containers, where one of the major crossroads is Van Buren.



She's sitting and waving, waving that paraphenalia around, writing that name in the sky she is; she is like, no problem. She was.



Moaning, barking. What the fuck, he says.



The dog gets off the bed and hides. The dog hates that word fuck.

Not you, he says to dog,

it's the bitch outside, fuckin' bitch.

Angie is outside on the lawn chair.



Sunday six a.m. buenos dias motherfuckers

you think you have problemas chinga chinga chinga...racing, racing like a tweaker bueno, mucho, fuckin, no concentration, perverted fucked up sickness, loading the brain with glory, glorious.



Now he realizes he should've helped that poor

heroin-addicted piece of shit, so help him God.



But he saw the light.

The light did shine.

It lit him up good, like never before;

that fucker was aglow,

like Christmas glowing just right.

Exactly right and what is right; perfect; so it will be.

And Lauryn Hill sings it'll be awright.



He was smiling when he did it.



Why in the fuck not? Fuckin' bitch wants drama.

Drama With Style.



He shoots her in the head.



Spastic, motherfuckin' bitch; you ain't shittin',

you bitch;

he puts one more round into her play-doh--ish-like bobbin' head;

matter sprays all over.



It's a blood shower.



Perfect warm, he says. Feels good.



This fucker is getting into it, the way she's water-hosin'

spurtin' blood, fuckin' bitch, you diahrea-spittin'

spooey-drippin' ... what d'ya think of me now; and he thinks it

good that he wasn't the one who stole the money.



I like this, he says.



No more problems.

-30-

Heroin is black/

Black is smack/

Crack is coke/

Coke you smoke/

Crack you shoot

Needs lemon juice/

Smoke the crack/

Slam the black/

Mix y'all

Speedball

--30--

Why spend $20 on groceries when

you can spend $80 on crack?

Fourth of July

in Crack City Did Crack Kill Baby?

BurneyThe neighbor said it sounded like a coconut when Burney's head bounced off the pavement. A six-foot free-fall.

Maybelline

Elusive is the way I would describe

Maybelline. No one knows her but me, this timeI relate, first time. Everyone remembers first times.

Cops call her a whore.

I call them cops pigs.



You are a sick fuckin bunch ain't ya.

Does Crack Kill?

It's about a good man who dealt crack.

He is dead now, and I don't know any details about

his death. Two people confirmed that he is dead, and I believe.

Time to repent, sicko. Time to repent.

“And Darkness hung the walls

with baskets of snakes”(Dylan Thomas)



"Something happened this morning

when I opened my eyes.

Everything was gone."

(Robert Cray)