***BIO*** Tony Oneill is 26 years old and used to be a musician until it all fell apart and he found himself with no viable life skills and a voracious heroin and cocaine habit he could no longer afford.  lost years in los angeles seedier neighbourhoods followed but now he has crawled out of the gutter and lives in new york with his wife and child where he writes.  his first novel "Digging The Vein" is due to be published at the end of the year on contemporary press in the US and canada. a short story / poetry collection is in the works for a UK release on Social Disease, entitled "Songs From The Shooting Gallery".  you can find more by him on laura hirds showcase
www.laurahird.com) and 3am magazine (www.3ammagazine.com) as well as literary vision magazine (www.litvision.org)
© 2005 zygoteinmycoffee Ink.
by Tony Oneill
the cure is the curse
in the methadone clinics of L.A.
generations of misery
a mountain of abscesses
armies of hurt
pent between dirty fluorescent lit
institutional walls

the old Chinese
points to his down-turned mouth
and you say ahhhhh
after swallowing:
they own your balls
they own your soul and now
they own your spit.

in the parking lot out back
only those able to regurgitate at will
into label-less brown medicine bottles
can make enough for a quarter
of a bag of dope

isnít it beautiful
making out
in the land of the free?

life on methadone
at first is like walking
through a sea of ink
like your brain has been pulled out
and replaced
by pond scum:
you canít think, your prick
doesnít work
and you canít even
get high anymore.

then they cut your dose
and the trouble really begins:
on the outpatient reduction cure
no-one ever
gets clean.
many donít come back
but no-one
gets clean.

the sign out front says
ďHere to Help!Ē
but 2 weeks in, when
12 dollars doesnít get you enough methadone to stay well and a bag of heroin is 7 dollars downtown...
you do the math)

in the methadone clinics of L.A.
and anyplace Ė anywhere
the cure is the curse
because when the anesthesia wears off
life buries you
under a kinetic landslide of
images, emotions, fear,
pain, futility
your fighting arm has withered
and died through non-use
and each blow resounds like
a thousand atomic bombs
July 2005