Morphine, My Other Skin

I have taken a fair few illicit substances in my relatively short time on planet earth. From 1991 through to say 2003 I was somewhat reckless (still am to a degree but with only two vices) although I maintained a grip on life regarding work and relationships, and never resorted to criminal behaviour (apart from buying illegal drugs.) I was not a total scumbag, just halfway.
One drug I never 'got' however was cannabis or grass. Sure I smoked it and smoked it plenty, either in spliffs, bongs or buckets, but I never enjoyed it. It never once got me feeling good or high, just sick. The reason I carried on smoking it was simply because it was there and freely available. But I never got off on it and couldn't understand those who did.


The last syringe I ever used

To me cannabis was a cheap and ineffective drug. Even 'skunk' the so called high performace version of cannabis failed to tickle my drug receptors. I think the closest I ever got to being high from pot was feeling dizzy. The drug made no sense to me (if drugs are meant to be sensible.)
Morphine and 'downers' such as valium and mogadon were much more to my liking. I fell for those chalked beauties like there was nothing else on earth to fall for. As soon as I took them I knew they would be my drug of choice, and although I was a fairly keen user of amphetamine and LSD, they would never set foot in the shrine I soon built for opiates and downers. I bloomed on them.
Others will say it was like crawling back into the womb for them but I didn't feel that way. I just knew my soul had found something utterly delicious. It didn't kill pain because I had no pain, it was just right and I was fortunate enough to escape having to sell my soul for it. I experienced no depravity, no ravages, and in a way that made it worse. To only see the delights of something so dangerous can be a curse in itself. Blind to the negative side of morphine it fuelled me further, I was 'built' for the chemical. The needle jab, the rush, the loss of breath.
I loved even the ritual of preparing the drug for injection into my soft, willing, tattooed skin. It almost over~shadowed my beloved alcohol and indeed would have done had it been as easily available. I suffered no hangovers with opiates and benzodiazipines but alas the company one must keep (or at least be familiar with) in order to score such delights is dreadful. A cul de sac of culture, a place where ignorance rules supreme. Thieves and modern cut~throats, racists and loafers, definately not a group to want to be a part of and yet I was. For the pleasure of laying down in drugged pastures, this softly spoken, kind poet had to dine with sharks and robbers. At the time I thought it was worth it.

Poet's last kiss

I don't know if morphine made me any more creative as I have always been pretty consistent in regards to churning out my poetry, essays, etc but it did send me on different chute (so in a way it did fire creativity) and it did instill a wave of calm into my writing. After the act. I never once composed under the influence of drugs I hasten to add. Ideas were stored but I was too cocooned in the wonderful buzz to actually record poetry from narcotics in real time.
My warnings to youngsters wanting to try opiates or downers would be a little different from the main naysayers. True, I did not slay any dragons or discover any hymns whilst under the influence, and I definately do not recommend the morphine vacation but its not all stories from the trenches. Or the graveyard.
Out of the bottle or syringe, the needle had the less sting.