Scents of a Tweaker

I've smoked the stem of a dozen roses,
fakes ones: manufactured
of glass, of cloth, of sweat
from mountainside Chinese factories.

No soft fragrance scents these roses,
they carry the pungent stench of years
spent in a myriad of late nights trimming
fake twenties, stealing junk in unlocked cars,
scrapping off skyscrapers, off stars, off gods,
off supernatural denizens of the night:

all contributors
for that one more hit
that never comes.