Lovely macho-boros,
cowboy killers, coffin nails,
necessary butch accessories:
you speak for me when I have no voice to say
STONE—
smoke curling up her thigh, intimate yet aloof,
a long distance touch while I
shoot pool all cool behind that screen—
RAGE—
cartoon red ticking bomb box,
sticks rolled up, packed tight, and even filtered,
never forget that cigarettes burn—
and, yes, DEATH—
one bar suicide each hot tube,
secret black lung spot scar,
seven minutes solitude,
oh sweetest savored death-ward time
smoked most alone.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment