Sympathy for the Dealer

Indio was not a nice man
he’d just as soon steal your wallet
or fuck your girlfriend
as sell you dope
but this was a business
of freaks and assholes
not nice men

He had the smack
brown and sticky
from Mexico or Guatemala
ready to be melted down
and this was what mattered
not the quirks and deficiencies
of his rather loathsome personality

For the love of dope
we would gladly brave

his filthy apartment
that smelled of piss and vomit
in which the grime
seemed a thing alive
coating a thick layer on the skin

For the love of dope
we would gladly brave

his roaming, groping hands
that would fall to rest
seemingly absently
on breasts or testicles
and attempt a rote, clumsy caress

For the love of dope
we would gladly brave

his fits of wild rage
hands gesticulating madly
and errant spittle
undoubtedly infected with disease
splashing off our faces

Indio was scum
pure and simple scum
straight junkie street trash
one step up from the gutter
but he was our scum
and in a world like ours
this was all the distinction we needed

Exchanging drugs for money

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