I feel sick.
The taste of cigarettes
In ash-colored air -
The two are non-sequential.
Cigarettes taste like home.
The good part of home.
The part of home
That silences my mother’s mouth;
Preventing the vices of its tongue
And the stresses that cause them.
Over generation.
Over generation.
You are your mother.
A compilation of love
Forced by proved masculinity
In your open cavities.
And my father said...
Well -
He didn’t.
Words failed him,
As he failed us.
Silence and cigarettes.
Over generation.
Over generation.
Aug 17, 2012
Aug 17, 2012 at 6:06 AM UTC
I feel sick.
The taste of cigarettes
In ash-colored air -
The two are non-sequential.
Cigarettes taste like home.
The good part of home.
The part of home
That silences my mother’s mouth;
Preventing the vices of its tongue
And the stresses that cause them.
Over generation.
Over generation.
You are your mother.
A compilation of love
Forced by proved masculinity
In your open cavities.
And my father said...
Well -
He didn’t.
Words failed him,
As he failed us.
Silence and cigarettes.
Over generation.
Over generation.
