Hidalgos & Nothing

Cocaine powder,
stains.
All over them.
The days of Scarface are long gone,
so we've been told.
Scars are hidden now,
secretly, under the skin
behind stimulated sensations.

These sons and daughters
of something.
Little less than the manufacturers
Little more than the consumers,
holy and terrible like addicts.
Fiending always for the tiring climb,
upward to the peak of neurosis.
Plummeting is private,
collision always conspicuous.