The Hockshop Blues

The Hockshop Blues

When there’s no powder left to be drawn into veins, or crystal residue found to claim, or stinking pipes waiting to flame.
Out pulled come electrical chords from dirty walls, and heirloom jewellery from the broken safe in the hall, and anything else that can be carried at all.
And onto packed buses, empty taxis and trams, clutched by withdrawn hot malnutritioned hands, eyelids open but can barely stand.
Into the pawnshop they march, stomp and step, start the yelling and under breath death threats, whenever cash appears mouths always get wet.
And soon you’re best friends, or perfect enemies, depending on what swell of dollars is washing in from the sea, every item a former memory.
At the end of the day filthy mop up the floors, start double checking the locks on the doors, sending out lists of purchased goods out to the law, finally smashing into straight booze galore.


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