New Years Resolutions

Not another unfulfilled new years resolution

Right this is the first lot of poems I'm putting up on this new site. I used to actually have a dedicated site for all my poems but then again I used to have a lot of other things as well including in no particular order: my health, a fit rich girlfriend, no debts, veins, money in the bank. Well not to worry coz I may be what the Oxford Dictionary terms a "fuck up" but I'm not finished yet. You know why?? Coz I have a plan. Yes I may have been in this game since 97 and yes a lot of good friends have fallen along the way but I am still standing and have a little thing called hope. A bit of that and the knowledge that whatever comes to pass I am still a good person no matter what bad shit I have done in the past is keeping me headstrong. So I wrote a list this New Years day of things I want to do this year and starting writing again was one of them.

Life is a long journey made up of many little steps and the first step of mine is to put up all my old material in the hope that it will inspire me to write some new stuff. So here it is. Make of it what you will. If you have some good stuff of your own feel free to post. And to anyone out there who cares: have a good life if you want one! Laters.

Jingle Jangle

Jingle Jangle, Jingle Jangle
My heads up my arse like a fucking spangle.
Coz I'm banged up, Clanged up and rattling to fuck,
but that's the price I pay for running out of luck.
Prison food, the dog food, all the fucking swill,
none of it matters when you're feeling this ill.
The bunk beds, razors edge, I'm on my torture rack,
none of it would matter if someone would give me some smack.
Keep twisting and turning in a moments toil,
God I wish I had a beetle crawling down the foil.
These messed up games, the ones we like to play,
all I wanted was a gram a day.
So hurry up Joey, you said you'd be quick,
shit it's getting late, looks like I'm gonna go sick.
There's sweat on my back and fire in my brain,
I aint ever gonna touch that shit again.
All right babe, just a touch, just to see it pass,
then I promise you finito at last.
So what ever comes, or come what may,
the Wigstars the man, let me hear you say,
Jingle Jangle, Jingle Jangle,
I'm all fucked up, I'm a fucking Spangle.

By Steven "Michael" Williams

Freedom of the Street

I met a tramp with a stomach cramp,
about to bang up a methadone amp.
He was hungry, cold, smelly and old,
had a runny nose from a smack addicts cold.
He justs wants to be warm.
Warm and stoned,
his blagging technique a fine art he’s honed.
Years of begging, robbing and skanking,
a loveless life but free of nagging.
He’s his own man, a man of the street,
living life light on his feet.
He don’t care that no-one else does,
he survives this life with a heroin buzz.
People may stare, spit and shout,
but the drink and drugs block it all out.
He sits on the floor, all alone,
Burtons shop doorway his very own home.

By DoubleDipped

Sweet Dreams

Sweet Dreams,
dreaming of you,
all dressed in blue,
pink or red,
whatever you wear, you’re in my head.
All night, I toss and turn,
hoping for that chance,
a kiss on the lips,
a midnight dance.
The moonlight weeping,
holding hands and making plans,
wedding bells and baby smells,
a partner for life with my imaginary wife.
I touch my cock.
sweet dreams turn to wet dreams.
I wake up covered in sweat,
but I’ll never forget.
That’s where she’ll stay,
in my head, but in my bed..

By DoubleDipped

Jobless Opportunities

Being on the dole,
what fun!
Oh the joy of signing on.
the pleasure of the unemployed,
the workers unite, the jobless destroyed.
Sitting at home, alone,
smoking bone,
chatting on my mobile phone.
I need drugs to pass the time,
maybe I'll go out do some crime,
meet a nice bird,
play a game of Cludeo,
join a gym,
learn Judo.
There’s a whole other life out there,
but do I care?
The whole world to explore
all those jobs to ignore.
I know what I’ll do instead
I think I’ll spend my life in bed.

By DoubleDipped

Dig It

Diggin, diggin, diggin deep holes.
In my arms, in my legs.
My head it swirls.
I feel the pin, and I feel the pain.
Mum I feel the sorrow,
And I feel the shame.

By Wigstar 2002

The Worried Man

If I don’t give a shit about myself,
how can I give a shit about other people?
Said the man to the drug counsellor
after he’d banged up another white hit
and took a sip
from the Valium linctus bottle.
Smack is my life,
I might as well be done with it,
marry it,
and let the bitch be my wife.
We all say shit we don’t mean,
and we all think shit we don’t say,
but leave that discussion for another day,
coz today is a quiet day.
If I got told I had cancer and had a month to live,
I would cut this implant out my gut,
and go back on the smack in a flash.
The choice is between living and being miserable,
or being high on a slow ride to die.
The counsellor sighed,
I nearly cried,
but with laughter.
What does he know?
About the reasons, the problems, the issues in my head,
maybe I’ll write another poem and show him when I’m dead.

By Doubledipped

Brown Bitch

I’m in love with a lady,
Her name is brown.
She consumes my heart,
Makes me forget,
Everything,
For a while.
But then I need her beside me,
Again.
I cannot live without her.
She scares me yet I cannot leave.
Together we will die
Hand in hand,
I fear that my funeral has already been planned.

By Doubledipped

Getting Clean

The joys of trying to get clean

So I am currently planning to get clean. Its been two years in the making so far since my last dismal attempt. I spent New Year in a detox centre going through hell and then within two weeks I was back on it. It was a Friday and I was at work. I remember getting into an argument at work with my boss and another member of staff and having to walk out the office because I was about to throw someone through a window. I went home hoping to talk about it with my old man and ended up having a massive row with him. I could have easily thrown him through a window as well. I'm quite a placid person on the smack but seem to flip out very easily when clean which is one of the reasons I always end up back on the gear, I get tired of waking up in police cells with sore fists. So I stormed out to avoid a fight and ended up scoring some gear.

Later that night I went home and at the back of a drawer found an old bottle of methadone. My Dad was supposed to clear my room whilst I was in detox but he had obviously missed this well hidden bottle. So feeling like shit and thinking I was probably getting the sack on Monday as well as thrown out the house in the morning I guzzled the lot down. I didn't die or even OD just slept for the rest of the weekend. It was later that I realised the bottle was one I had watered down with the intent of selling it to get some score money. So I was saved by my own deviousness.

Anyway that was the end of that little drug free break in a 10 year period of opiate abuse. I am one of those people that when "clean" only need to dabble once for it to snowball back to heavy habit. It has taken me years to come to that knowledge but for some reason everytime I will go through pure hell getting the shit out my body but within a couple of weeks will have forgotten that hardship. "One little boot won't hurt" seems to be a recurring sentence that always leads me back to where I am now today. Its something that I hope I can manage to stick to next time but knowing how my brain works when clean, which is totally different from now, means that the only chance I have of surviving those first 4-6 months off gear is by having one of those fucking expensive Naltroxone implants injected into my stomach. So if anyone wants to donate the £1000 needed then post a comment and if I get enough responses I might put one of those Paypal donate buttons up. Otherwise its another dastardly bank loan for me. Oh the joys of smack. If only I could put aside some of that money I spend each day on it I'd have enough for 5 implants by October. But that aint going to happen is it. Thus the dilema at the heart of my addiction. A score in the pin is always goin to win. Laters.

My Mum

Mum sits there,

In front of the tele,

Tray of food sitting on her belly.

Eating, thinking,

Watching Eastenders.

What’s in her head I think and wonder,

Washing, ironing,

Cleaning, shopping?

Her house is proud,

But I don’t see her stopping.

Or does she aspire to greater things?

Probably.

But I wouldn’t know, she is only my mum,

With me as a fuckup as her only son.

Wasting time with my dangerous habits,

My selfish behaviour.

Does she think she could have made better?

Does she want me to succeed?

Does she want me to be good?

Healthy,

Alive.

All I want is my shirts to be ironed,

And the funny thing is,

She doesn’t seem to mind.

That’s why I love her so much.

My mum.

By DoubleDipped (2000)

Gear Pixies

The gear pixies are here,

They’re at it again,

Stealing stuff,

For personal gain.

It was here a minute ago,

I saw it there.

No one would nick it,

No one would dare.

The only people,

With big enough balls,

Are those little pixies,

3 inches tall.

They come round here,

When everyone’s stoned,

And when no-ones looking,

They nick your bone.

Your smack, your cash,

Your pills your hash.

When they go pinching,

They make sure your mashed.

So you blame your mates,

You have a go,

But where your gears gone,

Nobody knows.

You check all your pockets,

You jump up and down.

You check all the tops,

You check on the ground.

Your gears disappeared,

Into thin air.

You punch a wall,

You pull at your hair.

Wherever its gone,

One things for sure,

Whatever you had,

You have no more.

Those pixies have robbed you,

They’ve done you good.

They’ve sneaked in your gaff,

And stole what they could.

So while your crying,

Dabbing at tears.

Just think of those pixies,

Smoking your gear.

By DoubleDipped