another cigarette
an egg turns on its head and breaks.
the crack is never straight
she looks me dead on
and the top falls off
a kettle to the floor
the water boiling
still as it touches
my left toe.
with drugs
with cigarette ash
and flame
with the dying
memory a dream
carved out pictures
caricature of who
we once knew we were
we are
changed
i am dying with
the thought
i am dying with
the creation
a new beginning
to rot in
waiting...
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
2 comments:
I dislike computers intensely.
Little poppies little hell flames do you do no harm? You flicker I cannot touch you I put my hands among the flames. Nothing burns. And it exhausts me to watch you flickering like that wrinkly and clear red like the skin of a mouth. A mouth just bloodied. Little bloody skirts! There are fumes I cannot touch where are you opiates, your naseous capsules? If I could bleed, or sleep! If my mouth could marry a hurt like that! Or your liquors seep into me in this glass capsule, dulling and stilling. But colourless. Colourless.
It's only vague and I had to mangle it bad, but the old ones are the best and Sylvia really did feel that you should see that. Here in relation to Another Cigarette.
Post a Comment