March 30th, 2004


Morbid poetry

This poem was dictated to me on a bus from Auckland to Hamilton in 1988 by a random 15-year-old junkie I met. I remember watching him shoot up. I was 18, and it was my first experience of 'hard' drugs. For some reason, I kept it, and this morning I found it among a pile of papers. I wonder where Danny is now...


My name is White Death
I come to you from across the continent
I slip past your customs men in 101 ways
And then through my friends in the darkened alleys of your city slums
To you.

And when you buy me you think you have paid
As I slip through the needle into your ice cold vein
You feel the warm floating sensation
And think it's all with it.

But when you fall to your knees
And clutch you heart
You mutter the words 'bad batch'
That's when you have paid.

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