Fiend
I have never shot a contaminated load of junk into my veins
and for this reason, I am unable to write poetry
save pathetic drivel like this.
I saw the advert in the adult section of a local rag (which is
hipster slang for "newspaper"):
"The human touch -- a hand to hold..."
$39.95 plus a nominal shipping fee.
Weeks later, I received the withered appendage, cold fingers
stiff with rigor mortis.
My hand to hold.
Now, each night (and sometimes in the morning), I envision
this beautiful woman
with her mangled stump,
and I thank her.
