Fiend
	I have never shot a contaminated load of junk into my veins and for this reason, I am unable to write poetry save pathetic drivel like this. I saw the advert in the adult section of a local rag (which is       hipster slang for "newspaper"): "The human touch -- a hand to hold..." $39.95 plus a nominal shipping fee. Weeks later, I received the withered appendage, cold fingers       stiff with rigor mortis. My hand to hold. Now, each night (and sometimes in the morning), I envision       this beautiful woman with her mangled stump, and I thank her.
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