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This poem is dedicated to My friend Marko, who shot himself in the head early one morning at a friends house after we had all come back from a night clubbing.


Letter to a Dead Junkie

 

 

 

The nights were long 

and the lights were bright 

in the neon backstreets

of the city of the night

the man named Marko

the king of the streets

dealing out happiness

to everyone he meets

 

University trained 

a clinical pharacologist

ask him yourself; he’ll say

street level alchemist

 

‘cause he makes the potions

that make people fly

out of their lives 

way up in the sky

 

for a while

 

see new things 

just like a child

 

----

 

The pounding of the music

the heat from the lights

the rush from the ecstasy

feeling alright

the dancefloors a temple

the people are gods

the speeds kickin’ in

you’re playing the odds

sweating profusely

but you don’t feel the strain

the E and the speed 

mixed up in your brain

 

The beat keeps on pumpin’ 

in time with your heart

the music continuous

no finish, no start

the beats keep increasing 

it’s all you can feel

you’re lost in a world 

that isn’t quite real

It’s a world thats enhanced

by the drugs that you’ve taken

they’d call you a junkie

but they’d be mistaken

you’re a party-time user

a street-wise kid

a weekend warrior

like a pan with a lid

a pan filled with water 

that’s been left on the stove

bubbling like crazy 

it’s about to explode

 

and then when it does

 

you collapse on the floor

your body starts shaking

it can’t take any more

 

The people around you 

are all lost in themselves

the ones that do notice 

are just too confused

they can’t see what’s happening

‘cause of the drugs that they’ve used

It takes time to realise

that you’re lying there dying

a couple do

thats why they’re crying

but they’re too fuckin’ wasted

to know what to do

 

Someone died at a rave

the papers said it was you

 

Your mother wouldn’t beleive it 

she blamed it on society

your father was angry

‘cause he never learnt to cry you see

 

They dressed up in black

on a saturday morning

and carried your box

while the hot sun was dawning

they put you in the ground

to the singing of songs

couldn’t understand

what it was they’d done wrong

 

now lying there stiff

in your box in the ground

your ears are dead

they can’t hear the sound

of the songs that they’re singing 

in memory of you

‘cause you danced yourself to death

at the age of twenty-two

 

Now a little way back

standing under a tree

stands a black suited man 

that the family can’t see

the man’s name is Marko

the king of the streets

dealing out happiness 

to everyone he meets

Marko the hero

everyones friend

Marko can fix it

right up to the end.




Fri vers av Lucius
Läst 516 gånger och applåderad av 2 personer
Publicerad 2007-10-16 21:28



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  Pnhom
minnen, så många minnen mannen. älskar den här spoken word dikten!! Du är mästaren
2010-02-12

  Inkarasilas
Pulserar i tempo med texten, flow flow mhmm.
2007-10-18

  Nettan
Mycket bra känsla och rytm dessutom mycket hemsk (på flera sätt)!
2007-10-16
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Lucius
Lucius