not morning but a yellow gleam
encases my surroundings
developing the world
in a faded nostalgic glimmer.

last night i wandered around a club having ditched my friends
just for a bit. it was i needed some space to fill my lungs with
something like impropriety. i ran into a woman who said she loved
my style. she had heavy but well-done eyeliner on, black lipstick
and a serious spray of piercings or diamond studs lining the right side of her face. i gave her a nod and my best i'm-not-drugged
look. i noticed she had a platter so she must have been a server. i clicked my cigarette holder in my tongue and stumble off.

i walk on the other side
im pumping blood to a body that doesn't experience to a body that
cannot relish or feel. both liberating and damning it is.

slaughtered fruits, abandoned plastic, clothes like rags on the floor.
what filth is this
what time has come?
caught and corrupted and cornered.

will anyone read this and will anyone make sense of it?
the importance or the symbolism? the intimacy?
but a poem is just words.
and a cigarette is just smoke.