vicodin

it was not this music
made of cheap old
poems that made
me sit on the
dirty roof of
your flat
just like a junkie;
a madman.        
I drank and
sang and
murdered some
cockroaches that
passed by.
I was a foolish
young lad
and my friends
were exquisite
and remarkable
characters;
they made
me smile and
write colorfully
about death
before instructing me
on the less painful
way to slit my right
wrist.
I was wearing
a straw hat
and I didn’t
know your name;
your address;
I hadn’t memorize
your phone number
and your favorite
author was Dan Brown,
or something like that.
- 

there was a taxi
downstairs.
I had five bucks to
spend and no idea
where to go.

I bought randomness
like a proud
capitalist freak.
five bucks of randomness
to be more precise.