Branwell Clinic

Branwell Clinic

by Julia (Overthetop1)

I entered the yellow world

of smoke and curious faces,

clutching my poetry

and vitamin pills - shortly to be confiscated -

(we don't encourage pill-popping of any kind here)

I kept the poetry, but the words scrambled,

So instead I played dominoes

with sweet-faced Patrick, who may have been 55 or 75

He had dried out more times than a shoreline in Summer

his shakes tumbled the dominoes, but still he beat me.

Jason looked as though he belonged to far-off lands –

not Deptford - his emaciated features contorted, as he

sweated through a new drug designed to ease withdrawals,

which was working about as well as Neil's legs -

strong as wood, they splintered under a seizure

whilst Paul, the ferocious right-wing skinhead,

cradled Neil's head in his lap like a baby

and watched over me, my glowering guardian angel.

We had a barbeque in sub-zero weather

and ran like dizzy deer, kicking a football in the snow -

regaling  each other with tales of drug-induced catastrophes,

weak with tears of laughter and guilt...

Who will make it through this scheme of shivery sickness,

we asked each other incessantly

You will - you too, I insisted

But I was wrong, as the old-hands had predicted

Not him, not her, despite their protestations

and endurance of pain so severe, they hugged themselves

like their own mothers - continuing to whirl around

the turnstiles of euphoria and desperation.

Me?  I left with new poems...

And a new addiction.