I recall the
disembodied, tobacco cobwebs.
The spider who wove them
spilled out of a glass bowl
while her ashen ass spun out
more and more and more.

I think she was high.
There were pain killers
and a tall bottle of vodka nearby.
She must have been high.

Soon the cobwebs merged together
more like wisps.
There were fewer pills on the table.
The wisps were like a mist.
The bottle was nearly empty.
A fog settled over the room.

The pills were gone
the vodka missing
and we were lost in the spider’s fog.

Sometimes it feels like
I’m still there.
Like I’m wandering lost and lonely
in a tobacco London Fog.
Sometimes I wish I was still there.

Then I recall my shame.
Not that I had been there.
Everyone, for the most part,
has been there.
No, my shame is that when I had a chance to leave,
I wanted to leave that fucking spider
Behind
And then nearly did.

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