I realize that the overdose
I've masturbated to
in so many poems
on paper
and on the walls of bathroom stalls
will hurt
and I will not drift off into infinite nothingness
like it were a nap succumbed to while reading
or gracefully slump over on the bathroom floor
where I'll be found smiling with the needle hanging out my arm
so quit trying to dissuade me with the details
I know it won't be no warm release
while I vomit my guts out in vain
and the picaresque paralysis will be experienced in excruciating pain
but
you see
it hurts just looking for a vein,
poking around under the skin
for 90 seconds
stabling myself six times
before the soup in the syringe is tinted red
and it burns
banging boiling liquid into my arm
all the way up
and then down my chest
until it hits my heart
and half a second later my brain
where from a breathtaking bouquet of dead flowers crawls down my throat
and I'm instantly ignorant to the throbbing bubble below my elbow
you see, you silly bastards
narcotics don't eliminate the pain,
they eviscerate your ability to care...
so there I'll be
dying just like a cancer patient
which
by the way
will be my fate if I don't push the plunger first
so be my guest
before I decide that it's time to die,
if you can think of one
tell me of a better form of suicide.
About Ezhno Martin:
According to Bob Phillips -- Toledo's Best Poet, and an old man who knows every prostitute between Flint Michigan and Cleveland Ohio -- "Ezhno's does what Ezhno does and goes around fucking up everything."
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