Addiction © 08 Paul Jenkins

Sam,
who was one hell of an idiot
and sadly
closely related to me,
spent most of his odd-moments
in inhaling car exhausts!
Silly really, I know,
but
he regularly inhaled
lungfuls
of poisonous fumes.

He’d tried changing his brand
from slim, cool Jaguars
to less costly
short, stubby Morris vans;
he’d even tried foreign brands,
Citroen, Fiat and Volkswagen,
and had turned once
to inhaling diesel.
But he was so attuned
to the combustion craze,
that he’d inhale any model or brand.

When asked why
he partook in such a vacuous pursuit,
his reply was
that he’d never asked himself that,
but that it was just a habit of his

that he had started as a dare
when he was thirteen,
and that it’d
just gone on from there.
Anyway, he didn’t care!

He just liked the way
it hit him in the gut,
sent his head spinning in overdrive
at one hell of a pace.
he was a real reckless case!
Sure,
he knew it was lethal,
but then it was fun,
and it was legal,
like playing Russian roulette!
He was a gutter-creep,
a real kerb crawler
who’d drop to his knees
almost anywhere
for a quick drag
of someone else’s exhaust,
if the feeling got him that way,
as it did
day after day after day,
after day;
after day.

He said once,
he only did it
to be sociable,
that say,
when approached by a mate,
he’d get out his model Ford V8,
fill her up,
switch on ignition,
and then blow smoke in their face;
just to impress
you see.

Then
one day
he stalled.
The habit
that had started
as a joy-ride,
misfired;
his timing
was over advanced.
They gave him a decoke;
no joke,
but it was of no use.
He couldn’t restart.
No spark left in him.
H.T. lead
   as limp
    as
  a brewer’s
   Droop.