Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
rae Apr 2014
cig by cig
              i am
                             my life away

           one cig at a time
one pulse at a time

so long souvenirs
useless memories
/ red /scars and bruises
'And when was this? I dunno, I dunno:
like everything else, twenty years ago.' - August Kleinzahler

Whosis slunk next to the rastamagnet
dj booth, in a limabeanhued suit
jacket, limabean sleeves rolledup to
deploy albino ancons for jostling.
My ****** lungs ached; gluttonous Venomised
pelicanbills. Cig o' no mercy, cig of life.
Serpivolent smoke is nicocreaming
ceiling of this dive Dasein dosses in.
Unrequiting snoutcloud of her chuffing
form siffles thru her mousy enamel.
'Light reflecting booster technology',
advertising Boswellox, scents her hair.
Male Black Widow Complex boings in my brain,
as the vogueress exits conceivable zone
of address. Yet she cigawrenches
my stalking thoughts across the pumptup ballroom.
O those farouche salad nights following
swotting up in the humid Octagon!
Male Black Widow Complex, th'always boinging,
lidded by lemony orange lager.
I crashed Crasherkid frabble, rocked to
DJ Shoppinghour feat. MC Niche Jah.
My Sax Pustules & Dead Kinnocks LPs
accusingly mouldered in my heart.
Crasherkids twatted then, dated now, now
grooveriders haggard. But time was the thud
of arterial Cherry7up
was the dub of their youthful BPM.
Triptown beefnecks w/ classic legoman's
Acid House ecaf (before e-cafes
had come & gone), mandy stag party.
I still slow my pace at their fearless napes.
The rock club had delusions of grunger,
crush at the bar was lumberjack cubism.
Era of Jingajing-chicka-jing-jing Kurt,
anno domudhoney, left a zeitgash.
& in the goth club, cadavolescent,
guylinered Xennials listened to
Placebo, but poo-pooed manginas.
Identi90s: genres, not genders.
Blotto elbows on sudsy bar, I cross
lanky barkeep's gulchy palm w/ nugget
for latest in a lost count of snakebites.
Streak of **** is a broom in a skinnytie.
'I'm hyperboring as much as you!' quip I
to a cheetahthinking softdrinker.
There'd be no ruction if pickled franion
spilt his Tab Clear Kaliber, H2ooze.
Yestreen's teen mums of teen mums, renubile
on the glash. Simuladies who soft soap
saps to buy them...a drink, QVCexy.
If shopgilfs surrender the goods, QVChy.
Whosis, tattie-bogie of the floor,
turned Turok w/ liebestorschlusspanik.
But his limabean lines are jejune, even to
zirconia Zsa Zsas on the zhelf.
Whosis, lima green last chancer, I'm a
aphroluddite like you. Both crud dancers
too, corybantersauruses. It's all
smoke 'n' mingers & we've got lunge cancer.
'There's a party on the hillside, would you like
to come? Bring your own cup & saucer
& your own cream bun!' Friends joyride
home dead, so ride dead joy home alone.
Simian, simulacrum, something for
the weekend, sir? Or are weekends just for
something before ip dip dogshit
******* ******* silly *** meet the kids then what?
Stereotripe, not Stereospeare, yet unknown
plexors would kick in. Or was it the joypop?
Popliteal self on higher neon knees,
Mother Brown's got nothing on me!
Anansesum of my fancy footwork,
Bez in blossom under tiger strobe.
Chemical cochise, call me 'Tarantulip':
totem, tarantism, bruxism, bloom.
Yeah, I liked DJ Offroseanne before
the coward sounds of Simoncowellland
killed Cool. Taxi for the Corpse of Cool/
fetch your coat, love, you've pulled the Corpse of Cool!
Since the ears dot, aural laurels were hot.
& the beat authenticity lays down
is still the drill sergeant instrumental
that leads blind zeit pipers of all pied geists.
Lima bean fugue, forearm flash, Dear John tats.
Nocturnal vernal mental of the comeup
becomesdown w/ no summerlove, bad trip
(Raggaman Kafka say 'Uneazee Dreamz').
'Taxi Driver' cinematography,
neon printcest of clubland signs dimmens.
Pick up your tuttifrutti braindamage
- time to go home, hungover twichildren.
dj Sep 2012
I am counting twelve pairs of ribs lining the perimeters
of my torso
Boney Me
Asthenia fingers
Wasted knees and knuckles
Pricking the hard chords on my chest-guitar
Misery eyes -- Dashing around in dustbin sockets
My head like a raisin with skull-shaped framing
****** inward
Looking at the dead animals guilting me
Looking at the withering plants begging for water
Evil food.

Attracted to the mirror
I know only this
Only what I see -- And I see a sow.

Lost in this possibly regrettable movement
Boney Me
Looking at the evil food
I tell it that I hate it and that it will never be me

I tell it I want to be like the flossy ones on magazines
Thin to skinny to boney
Boney me smoking an e-cig
I defeat the evil foods tonight
Surviving on primal back-up spirits
Surviving for the hope of closeness
I can waste away all this skin
And finally see my own heart.
“CAAAAMON-CAAAMON-CAAMON-CAMON. *******. *******, YOU STUPID *******!!!!”  I slam on the brakes as the traffic light turns red, the front end of my car now parked in the middle of the intersection.  

A bunch of headlights begin to move towards me, and I rev the engine, slamming the car into reverse.   Now behind the white line, I lean back and take a few breaths.  I sound like my old man.  That nasty, fat ***** was always screaming at those useless racehorses as his soggy, limp cigar would bounce from his lips, spit landing all over the paid-in-full fakies of whatever blonde ***** was cuddled up next to him for the afternoon.  Having lost everything by the end of the day, he would always plod home and deposit his soiled, checkered pants on the laundry room floor and crawl into bed to make love to my mom.  

Ugh. I need to stop thinking about him.  I already wish I could be one of those old horses who gets shot in the head.  Today was my five-year work anniversary, and on behalf of the entire department, volcano-face Emily bestowed upon me a massive dog bone, which now sits tauntingly on my passenger seat.  As she suppressed that nasty giggle of hers and handed me the bone, the room erupted with laughter, someone shouting from the back corner, “Hey, Ed! Get it?!  You’re always like a dog with a bone!”  Maybe I should go back to work and make that ***** play fetch.

No. I’ll save that for later.  Right now I am going to go get that Philly Cheese Steak sandwich that’s been on my mind all afternoon.  That is if this light ever turns green again.  But ******* is my mouth salivating just thinking about that sandwich.  

What the hell is that?

A Ford Bronco is blazing towards the intersection, directly into oncoming traffic.  It swerves onto the shoulder, speeding past the rows of stopped cars and blasting through the red light.  The driver is leaning out the window, swinging around a sword.  He notices me staring and looks straight into my eyes, solidifying his unspoken threat by pointing his medieval weapon straight at my heart.  

Fine.  If that ******* wants a duel, I would hardly be a gentleman if I did not oblige.  I reach behind the passenger seat and grab the antique cop light that’s been gathering dust on the floor ever since I purchased it at the neighborhood thrift store.  I slap the thing on the top of my car and punch through the red light, cranking the steering wheel to make a quick u-ey.  As I gain some distance, I can just barely make out the license plate.


You’ve got to be kidding me.

Dr. Pepper ignores the fact that I am only 20 feet behind him and turns up his stereo, blasting a Renaissance dance tune from hell.

I’m going to end this, and I’m going to end it by sticking that sword up that Shakespeare *******’s ***.  

Dr. Pepper slams on his brakes, the sudden jolt causing him to drop his sword.  The passengers in the back of the cab burst into a slow-motion uproar, and I take the opportunity to cut off their escape route.  Now stopped, I pull out my mocha-flavored e-cig from my front pocket and look over at my dog bone as the vapor fills the car.  I snag the bone and step outside, feeling the weight of the rawhide in my hand as I approach the truck. Not stopping to bother with the driver, I head towards the back, kicking the forgotten sword into traffic.  My clothes are bathed in red from the brake lights, and the coked-out frenzy of the Renaissance men reaches a ****** as I stand before them, looking like the devil himself.

Adrenaline is surging through me.  As I take a drag of mocha, I scan the faces of the annoying pukes in the back of the truck and locate the nastiest in the bunch sitting in the middle of his troupe, completely stiff with fear.  I look deep into his eyes and slowly exhale.  I pull one more drag as I raise the massive bone and bring it crashing down, making full contact with the left brake light.  The red shards explode into the sky, and I do not hesitate to follow up with the other break light.  Adrenaline coursing through my veins, I can’t help but swing even harder.  

Wow - what a beautiful explosion.  

“Unsheathe thy sword!  UNSHEATHE THY SWORD!”

Dr. Pepper searches frantically for his sword as I casually approach his door. “Dr. Pepper,” I say calmly. He continues to desperately ***** around the truck, so I lean forward, “DR. PEPPER.” He turns begrudgingly to look at me.  Wanting to bid farewell to my defeated adversary, I raise my right hand into a 90 degree angle and wiggle my fingers “bye-bye” in his direction. His blood-shot, brown eyes widen, and it’s clear that he is terrified that his face will be the source of my next fireworks display.  Lucky for him my stomach growls, reminding me that my quest for a Philly Cheese Steak sandwich remains unfulfilled.

I walk away, the cherry light still flashing on top my car, so I take my bone and take a hard swing, unleashing the last set of fireworks in my perfectly-directed scene.  I get in the car, and as I start the engine, the oldies station is blaring Clarence the Frogman Henry’s song, “Ain’t Got No Home”.  It’s the best part of the song, and without hesitation I begin to tap out the rhythms on my steering wheel and sing along with Clarence in that high-pitched voice of his:

“I ain’t got no sister,
I ain’t got a brother,
I ain’t got a father,
not even a mother,
I’m a lonely boy,
I ain’t got a home.
Lost in shadows Dec 2013
went out
picked up three easy women
had *** with one
went out two more times
struck pay dirt
for my pleasure
still unfilled.
did you like my poetry babe?
you can create poems
whining about your broken
and your loser state of mind
for having *** with me
withing hours meeting me for the first time.
were you a ******?
doubt that!
i will be picking up more easy women all day
you can post poems about broken heart
on this site.
happy new year to you easy lay
going back to bed
finishing off this easy lay
then out to the curb she goes
with my trash.
Bb Oct 2013
After smoking my first pack
Of cigarettes
The novelty wore off pretty quick.
It didn’t feel cool anymore,
Didn’t make me feel important.
The cigarette was just something
To stick between my fingers,
**** between my lips,
Inhale and feel something
In my lungs.
A prop.
It was just a stick
With a red, smoldering ****,
A piece of tobacco
To play with before the ember
Ate way down to the filter
And singed my fingertips.

Now, I think I light up
Because the smoke is so
******* enticing.
It’s beautiful,
A kinesthetic work of art
like a ballet,
The way those silver
Tendrils curl so languidly
From the tip into the air,
So graceful, so smooth.
When I smoke
I can’t help but to imagine
I’m watching a group of dancers.

And I think I light up
Because there’s nothing better to do
Half the time and at least
It flouts the boredom
for a few minutes or so,
At least it interrupts the
Relentless monotony of Life.
Kurt Vonnegut mentioned
Something about smoking
Being a noble form of suicide-

Well, so it goes.
Harrison W Apr 16
Smoke it up cool cat
Lie back in the chair
Light a cig and breathe-
In the warm tobacco-
Taste flavors of tar, menthol-
And happiness
Feel nicotine travel
Through the branches-
Of veins
Watch the opaque smoke
Dwindle in front-
Dip head forward-
Get that scent in-
Eau de cig

Coffee finally arrives
Put out the cig
Ground plant into-
Burning ashes-
Pinch the cig-
Pour in cream-
Stir with cig-
Gettin’ the crusty-
Embers into the-
Golden nectar-
Of the gods-
Around around it goes
Drink it up
Is the rough gravel-
On your tongue-
Ground coffee or ash?
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
angry men who do not know I do not have a dollar or a cig to spare. Ugly irrefutable contagion-handed howlers. Angry mischievous heathens that pantomime on 6:00a.m. sidewalk, Wicker Park gallow stop-sign, choreographed gutter-punk drunk walk. And of all he wants and could ever want splits down his gooey membrane brain in the outline of a noun shaped fragment of a clause, "Couldja spare 80¢ for the train," but of course I don't spare on the ellipsis or the period. Semi-colons I won't! My rubber-bottomed leather boots lash out, heavy scraping sounds trail this mirrored shadow half an angle behind me.

*****!! Blonde framed sunglasses from American Apparel, a gift from my sister in a folded Ray-Ban case is scattered on last nights bedroom floor, my girlfriend has certainly not noticed, the gloom-coated morning sun spray has not noticed; but I have unzipped a fissure in the ocular lens. My heart skips a beat. Her bedroom might as well have swallowed them whole. Now the house can halt and have the shade, swaying in Spring air in 10:22a.m. shadows. The aviator himself Howard Hughes would strike me with his 488 aircraft. Edwin Starr in his invincible sinister calypso of War would turn me round. I was sturdy as a rock until I began to forget my forgottens. These unknown unknowns I knew I needed. I'm over a quarter-century on to noon going nowhere- and quite blindly.

But then, still she could stand upright and find me. Her neck crooked, looking onward through the East, the gristly roots of rhubarb buried in her searching fingernails. She's threaded worse, and of course if I could just tell her- this is the kind of nursing which requires acute temperament and flexibility. I am thus on a journey to strike nonsense and fear from the idiotic vocabulary that put this nonsense in my head. Split through me like a butter knife into my apotropaic. Perhaps tar water could cure my ails. If not, certainly a sliver of vanilla would set me straight. Or if could just rain rain rain all day, then I'd make do without, but she is at school. My pistons are racked and nervous, and I'm not going anywhere but my rucksack stoop. I am camped in midwestern Spring soup. Fog, rain, and shade. The nightmare of day.
Inspired by William Butler Yeats 'Beautiful Lofty Things'
Cameron Haste Aug 2014
Moss covered women
beggin' fog man
to grip a cig
from their tangled wigs
(a snarl of emerald branches
& voodoo masks
with plastic flasks,
they grave loot from caskets
& trash.)

Raunchy regulars
calling loogies to duty.

I've been livin' in a tumble ****,
with a doctorate for wildebeest.
don't go back, she bites.
Morgan Feb 2013
I am honest but I lie to myself.
I am vain & I am intolerant.
I am an active advocate of my morals
but I am unsure that they exist.
I am not convinced my friends know me-
I am not convinced that I know me.
Sometimes I laugh all day long
& then I cry myself to sleep.
I worry there are too many thoughts inside my head.
I worry I don’t think enough.
I call myself complex
but I am so simple on Saturdays.
I do not have a favorite anything
nor do I have a soft spot for anyone.
However, all I am is soft on certain Sundays.
I’ve been fearless & I’ve been terrified both on a Friday.
I answer “no” & then do it anyway.
I don’t believe in love but I fall in and out of it
as you think out loud.
I am consumed with emotion.
I am numb.
I like the way the sun feels against my skin
but I sit in the shade.
I am compassionate
& I hate everyone.
I am a wallflower
but I am obnoxious.
I quit smoking months ago
but *** me a cig & watch me inhale it.
I am 8 & I am 18 & I am 80 in an hour.
I cant do math in my mind
but I subtract you from
and add you to the equation twice every week.
I’ll pick you apart for hours
& then tell you that you have weak values.
I am a diagnosed insomniac
but I can sleep from 6am to 6pm on a Monday.
I preach self-love with bleeding wrists.
I will call you in the middle of the night
& then ignore you in the morning.
I am the most clear minded psychopath who ever lived.
I am so incredibly happy & so terribly sad.
peter larkin Sep 2011
if i would be taller
my life would be great
but ****** im not
and i need to lose weight

the walls are so high
and the world is so big
i look to the sky
as my friend smokes a cig

id love to be 6 foot
so my dreams can come true
and if ur my mates ex
ill be seeing u soon
L A Lamb Sep 2014
Friday, August 01, 2014, Buttes-Chaumont Parc, Paris, France.

Why do I need feminism? We all have our reasons. We all have our stories. Let me tell you about my day:

I was sitting on a hill in the grass at Buttes-Chaumont park, a lovely historical area in Paris. I wanted to be relatively by myself so I could write in peace and smoke without drawing attention to myself. I’m sitting, book in my lap, a pen and cig between my fingers, when I am approached by a man. My main concern was determining whether or not he was the po-lice, but he had no characteristics of cops. He appeared emotionally stable and had good hygiene so I wasn’t too uncertain, (isn’t it kind of bad how we judge people on that stuff?), still, I wondered what he wanted, dreading having to talk to someone when I was merely trying to write in peace. I figured he was going to ask me for something to smoke.

He didn’t. Instead, he asked if he could sit by me. I look around and scan all the other vacant spaces he could sit instead, making it obvious that there was plenty of room to sit instead of right the **** next to me. It’s a pretty big park. “Si ca ta derange pas?” I wasn’t planning on staying long anyway, but I knew he wouldn’t be dangerous as there were many families and couples and runners and walkers, old friends and young kids playing. I felt safe enough, and he seemed harmless. I figured if anything, I could practice my French, which was always nice.

I said okay. He sat, and for a moment we sat in silence. I made myself a sandwich with baguette and cheese and offered him some. He politely declined. We started talking.

I asked if he was Parisian, and he told me he lived there for a while but was from Afrique. I didn’t catch which country, but I don’t think he specified which region. He asked about me, and I told him I was American, born in DC, but I came to France every so often and it was my first language. We talked about travel. We talked about the chaos in the Middle East, and how it was prophesized in scripture. He told me he was Muslim. I told him I wasn’t religious.

I told him I acknowledged the importance of texts, but I believe our ability to think has evolved in 2000 years and we have more information now than we did then. I told him there was too much life and I could not fit it all into one magic being which sprinkled glitter and said “Let there be” and we were created. I told him I really liked the Asian philosophies of Buddhism and Daoism. We talked about peace. We talked about Human Rights and the beauty of diversity, and how marvelous it was people could live among another in peace.

I said it was cool, and I even said it was cool that even as a black man in Europe and an Arab-American woman, we could talk freely without hostility and social division. We talked about closed-mindedness and Conservativism. I explained cognitive dissonance contributing to conflict, generated by opposing views and resistance/reluctance to consider new ideas. We talked about Psychology. I told him I was a writer and I told him about Cabaret Populaire in Belleville and the poetry community in Paris. I told him I love Paris. We talked again about travel.

He told me he was in Germany last weekend, and I told him I was in Langen Tuesday night. He told me he always wanted to go to the U.S.A. We talked about immigration. We talked about the American Dream. We talked about money. I told him I was proposed to the last time I was in Lebanon. We talked about reasons people marry. I reminded him today was the first of August, which meant I’d been with my boyfriend for two months. We talked about love. We talked about monogamy, polyamory and infidelity. We talked about Islam. We talked about racism.

We were sitting there talking for an hour or so, which I was especially grateful for, because besides having an interesting conversation I was able to speak in French for all of it, as he did not speak English (apparently he spoke German, though). I stood up to leave and told him “Enchanté,” but before I started walking off he motioned for me to look at his phone. I was wondering if he was trying to add me on Facebook or follow me on Instagram or something, but I am instead confronted by a picture on his screen of him laying on his back on a bed, with an ***** ***** as the focal point.

Furious, I asked him “Pourquoi tu ma montre ca?! J’ai pas demande a voir ca!”

The stupid smile on his face disappeared and was replaced by a look of slight hurt, confusion, and surprise.

“Bordelle! C’est dommage—mais c’est ca—des hommes et femmes ne peuvent pas parler normalment, vraiment!”

And for the vile words I wanted to spout, I scoffed instead, too much of a lady to shout or get emotional, but I made sure to call him out and stand my ground, exuding negative energy and making it clear with my few words that that was not okay.

I gave no impression of interest in seeing his ****, so why did he do that? Even if he thought I might want to (hell never) he should have heard me ask or vocally say “yes, you can do that.” However, I did not ask; there were no prompts, hints, innuendos or even suggestive, flirty phrasing that would serve as an indication of ****** interest on my behalf.

I don’t want to be cynical and assume all guys are perverts and avoid any conversation because I’m not a rude person (generally). I’m not sexist. I value conversations and friendships with people without emphasis of gender importance. I try not to assume that everyone is sketchy or has ****** up motives. Some people just want to talk.

I wasn’t going to blatantly ignore or dismiss him because he was a man, nor because he was black, foreign, or Muslim. But where the hell is he from that he was socialized and thought that was appropriate or wanted?

I did not ask. The worst part is that he seemed like a genuinely alright person, but then he had to ruin it by whipping out a **** pic. Gross. What’s even more gross is the sense of entitlement he had, thinking it was acceptable to do that. You are a stranger. And I don’t want to see your ******, you disgusting *******.

I really don’t like assuming **** about people or making generalizations. I’m not going to assimilate one ****** with every group they are assigned to and stereotype against every person of that respective group. But fuckkkk. It’s annoying and disappointing that what I thought was a pleasant talk and exchange of ideas with a friendly stranger was actually a plot to show me his ****. ****.

The moral of this story is to say why feminism is needed, because this happens to people every day. If you still need further assistance understanding, please allow me to elaborate:

1)      I need feminism because it allows me to stand up for myself and feel confident about stating that I’m uncomfortable with unwanted behaviors and I’m not going to tolerate them.

These behaviors include, but are not limited to:

1)      Showing me **** pics

2)      Assuming it’s okay to show a girl you met not even an hour ago a **** pic (Do not even say it’s because of a culture difference, because I know of Frenchies who don’t do that)

3)      Approaching me because I’m sitting alone (I accepted that because I assumed he wasn’t going to violate my mind like that (good thing I don’t have photographic memory) but I didn’t wave over and say “Hey, you look friendly! Come over and talk to me!”)

4)      Asking me how serious things are with my boyfriend

5)      Asking me about my bisexuality—only to invalidate it

6)      Assigning me behavior expectations because of my gender

7)      Trying to control the way I do or do not reproduce

8)      Expecting me to behave a certain way because of my sexuality

9)      Judging me based on my sexuality

10)  Openly discriminating against people and expecting me to be okay with prejudice

11)  Using racist terms… because you’re a racist

12)  Dehumanizing the oppressed

Because I don’t know what you studied about it (wait—most people who disagree with feminism haven’t and are completely misinformed) but:

Feminism is about equality, and it doesn’t feel very equal when I show someone respect but I get no respect in return. And if you associate feminism with fauxminism and misandry, please educate yourself. (If I had Tumblr still, you better believe I would’ve already posted this). To quote the great words of Jay in Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back: "Remember, don’t whip your **** out unless she asks."
Jessica Britton Oct 2013
This is to every sour patch kid
That ever tried to be cool by going off the grid
But you’re only as cool
As that mouth behind your cig
And the thoughts you numb with aspirin

I think we all know
It’s sour
Then sweet
But not before it’s gone
So keep it in your mouth a little longer
And then maybe
Just maybe
We won’t cry every time the bag is empty
And the lights turn out
And all we have left are those little grains of sour
That we still eat anyway

This is to every sour patch kid
That ever wrote “I love you” on your eye lids
Then fluttered your lashes
But closed your eyes for too long
Too long to see that the party was gone
And that you were the only one still pretending to have fun

Lets for a minute pretend that
The red ones aren’t just Swedish fish with a little bit of tang
And that the slang you throw in there
Doesn’t make your words anymore true
But were all gonna scream it anyway
Then maybe
Just maybe when we’re screaming
We’ll forget how to talk
And have to use our hand to say more than
Flipping the bird ever could

This is to every sour patch kid
That only did what they did
Just to say that they could
What society forbid

Well this is how it ends
The bag in which you so snugly live
Is ripped open with teeth
And when that happens
You’re gonna fly in between the
Gear shift and the seat
And then maybe
Just maybe
The hand will be skilled enough to get you out
If you’re lucky enough they even look

But even as messed up as that is
Or even as wasted as Kesha is
She has a point
We are who we are
Sincerely, The Breakfast Club
Doris Oct 2012
I guess, I don't have to lie.
I guess, I shouldn't be afraid
and not get the best of myself.
I guess, I should try to stop being my own threat.
I guess, I shouldn't be myself up
and not let things pile up around me.
Smoking cig after cig in a tiny apartment won't fit even my smallest dream.
I am brave.
Things I cannot control,
eat me alive.
I make choices that I have to face and so does he, she, her and him.
I raise, I stand, I fall.

What was her name?
A diminutive of something
Or a shortening.
And I don’t even think that I am close

I miss you.

a small concrete table
a group of girls
Smoking and smoking and smoking
Trading lipgloss
I don’t remember what we talked about

But I do remember that the meds made you so
“Are you gonna eat that?”

That’s how it begins in such places
Passing off a cig
Or trading processed food
Or just giving it away.

Have a lie down
or hand over the pill stored in your cheek
for someone

You said after your second plateful of anything
Make sure you let me know if I start getting fat

I tried not to follow you around
We had breakfast
Cigarette breaks
lunch and dinner
I could have sat with you all day and night

But I let you roam like a yearling
talking too much to too many people
Spinning around in the hallways
The skinny girl
on the floor doing a striptease on her back
in the streaming sunlight
I could tell
That you got paid for this at some point
Even the imaginary boa scared these boys

You loved to talk about God
I, however, do not

You loved a ****** ******
They were your favorite
and would reminisce with the junkies
Always sitting close-by
You claimed that you could make a man cry
By what you could do to his body
I can only imagine
what you’ve done so far
At your age
and you have a kid

I know
that you’re frightened
to be alone
with your mother
She’s so small
You wouldn’t want to hurt her

And I see her
that one time
with candies and soda
that you made her bring from
the 99 cent store to share
with all these people that don’t like you
that she is
a tiny thing
anyone could crush her
I see your point.


I can’t remember your name

You’d wake me for breakfast
Or, I you
You said the voices never stop in your head
Not just voices but other strange noises too
You acted like it was
a drag
But in fact you were **** scared

I can hear sounds too I offered
And Strings
Faint Voices calling my name
Offering succinct advice
Can’t everyone?
Leaning against a wall
with you at my feet
I saw your head snap
To the right
I said
Don’t worry
I heard that too
And you were so relieved
You grasped my feet in gratitude

You said that you are three.
Dread is the bad one
a male
And another
a ****** female who’s name
I can’t remember either
I suggested that there were more
I met the ***** and I did not like her
at all
In anger I returned your sweatshirt
And you said
You know she’s terrible
I told you that
Take back the shirt
It’s cold

The men here don’t understand
They assume that it’s lovey
Their minds are blown by
Companionship in difficult circumstances
Holding hands might help you through
You never know until you try

You loved to have arguments over the Bible
I would make a lot of noise to shut it down
I cannot listen to that
You would talk on that phone on the wall
With the father of your child
About god
You missed your boy’s
first day
of kindergarten
You called him on that phone to make sure that he got the plastic truck
or some such toy in your absence

I wonder when you gave up your life
When an injection of Ativan in your ***
and a night
In an darkened empty room
became an ideal resolution.
You couldn’t figure out
why you had a lump on your head
And I explained that
it was the result of
banging it repeatedly
against the wall.
Side effects of Lorazepam include:
Little recall

You seemed to have a plan.
Visiting and writing up the coast
The Dean Moriarty of Hospitals
But what about your kid?
The doctors say you can’t leave until you’re well
I couldn’t even tell what’s wrong exactly
Or what he’s really trying to tell you
Other than too much too soon
But that’s every girl in LA
Isn’t it?
You said that
Emerged at age 24.

I think about your son.
I can’t believe that you have one.
And your mother
Who adopted you.
What did she in fact bring home?


When they called to say that my car was here
That I could go
You covered my neck
With kisses
And said Thank You Thank You
I Don’t Know
What I Would Have Done Without You

What is your name?

Just the letter.
I remember
Thank you.
Lover of Words Oct 2012
Caffeine and tobacco, and the occasional puff of marijuana, thats how we do it right.
The lack of love is leaving us lonely and we lie about in vain,
Not sure of what next high is nigh, or if our nights are purely as selfish and ***** as we made them to be,
We didn't know what was next,
We tried to study for a test we knew we were going to fail,
And we had *** maybe three or four times last wednesday,
Except I can't tell when I will ever be able to see him again,
Life is spinning, or is that just me,
I don't know whats up or down, or even where to go next,
I hope that real life isn't as hopeless,
**** it,
I don't care,
This ain't a poem, just a sigh,
I breathed in again some pointless oxygen,
And exhale out the words that make no sense,
An ache of broken dreams and ancient histories,
Of how my life is so **** far from ever being perfect,
I'll always be so fat and dreary,
And  I can never get a guy to truly like me more then just my face,
Please, oh how i wish I could put them in their place,
Quick I need an i.v. to **** out this poison I put inside to hide the sorry facts that I'm alive,
Someone quick give me a drug to block out it all,
The misery I've endured for too many years,
An acid, a cig, a sip of beer,
Anything that will keep me from dying tonight,
Oh but to think of death,
How sweet,
To think of never bearing pain or thought or another heartbeat,
A simple absolute,
A final relief,
Another great day to be destroyed by the fact of another tomorrow,
There would be a nothing to ever be more,
So think not me suicidal,
Just sadistic and a little mad is justice,
But let you not think that I need help,
I need friends thats all,
To help me get through the roughness,
Maybe I'll eventually callous for once,
And the pain I endured will be a remembrance, a faint dream of wonder
Something like a mystery, yet it ends with fondness
Troll Mar 2014
My ***** are big,
So I smoke a cig,

And dig like a nig
Yeah buddy
Steve Boldin Sep 2010
Red headed ******,
Skin white and fluffy.
Spots on his skin,
Like dots of tan.
Mind always on ***,
Fan of internet ****.
Smokes himself to death,
Always ******* on a cig.
Always saying "**** my ****",
But only to men?
Closet ***.
Looking for something to ****,
I'm worried for the neighborhood squirrels.
Loves drinking some beer,
But only likes it light.
Always gives a good laugh,
Stupid *** smile.
Best Friend.
Drinking is okay,
Jesus drank wine.
Copyright 2010.
entropiK Dec 2010
The* r a b b i t, lead me into calamity.
My ashes that used to haunt me..

-I shaped them into pretty dolls.
Damage | Repair
Krissy Schiller Jun 2012
As Captain Jack kisses of the last roach
Lavender's in the boathouse window shouting that she's grown wings that she's gonna fly
over Old Casey's boat above the painted lake past where the music surrounds
permeates with the pulse of noise
Green Hat pulls me over says my name is Corey
or Kelsey
Kelly's a **** name I tell him back home people call me Blow
Enter Tennessee the cinnamon sipping reds smoking sonofagun
Are you Kevin?
I ask the fingers that familiar flight of touch leading me
down and
down and
down towards our game
"Never have I ever" howls the young Indian chief, scarf draped in madness
the fearless warrior Peepeeohpee
Someone has trapped the moon behind the window the house on the hill someone has fed the fire with its secret light
This stranger this enigma this Laura I am her cousin
and everyone I touch is Kevin
Then with the sun Tittas steps off the boat as Jesus
sacred palms slashed from last night's ritual
Bums a cig from Drew or Not Drew with the thousands out west and the lotus flower arms
Floats on her back French exhales
As I look at our feet stained red with ink all slow spirals soft wind ***** flowers
then to the shore the fireflies still dancing through the dawn
Flying high
Secretly praying to each outshine the fade
Bathsheba Nov 2010
Out today

To buy some plates

Nought to my liking

I’m in a terrible state!

Stuck behind


Renault Espace

‘Yummy Mummy’ (sticker)

In pride of place!

It piqued my interest

So …. I had a peek

‘Yummy Mummy’

What a cheek!

A face that looked like a sicked up bun

Could only




By this

Wobbler’s Mum

Oh my God

It made me laugh

“Cover up those warts,

hey, borrow my scarf”

What would posses this creature from hell?

To create the illusion

That she was a swell

Does she not realise

That we all have eyes?

A priest would think twice

Before he baptised

You would cross the road

To avoid this face

Yet …. She’s out in the public

What a ******* disgrace!

Next to her sat a fat baby pig

Dressed up to the nines

Methinks …

“It’s time for a cig …”

As I inhale

I look up to the sky

Apply too much gas

“Oh **** … I might die!”

I slam on the brakes

But alas

It’s too late

No time for reactions

No time for debates




Straight into the rear

The car is a write off

There is trouble

I fear

As I gather my thoughts

This creature appears

Bedraggled and angry

Piglet’s in tears!

I try my best to calm her down

Soothe her wobbly bits

But she is all a bother

Piggy’s got the *****!

So … I look up and down the road

See … I know the drill

Just one simple gentle push

‘Yummy Mummys’

Over the hill!

Now …. Don’t you go a worrying?



Safe and secure

I toss old squeaker in the boot

Start on my new detour

Soon I’m home and fired up

It’s time to raise the heat

Piggy will be spit roast

Sweet juices will secrete

Apples are gently cooking

Tatties are crisp and just done

I invite the neighbours over

For some summer bbq fun

Old Man Rodgers sits on his chair



Porkpie’s arm

Lucy Lee the ******

Gobbles with old aged charm

We had a laugh that breezy day

Love was in the air

We danced naked round the spit roast

With abandonment

No care

Soon the feast was over

There was nothing left but bones

We tossed them in the wishing well

With the rest of the unknowns

**So next time you get an inkling

That you’re a ‘yummy’ or a ‘babe’

Be careful where you drive my friend

For your life’s about to fade

Fade into the darkness

Along with all the rest

Please pay attention to these words

For this is my last bequest
Jay Jimenez May 2013
the smoke it pours slowly out
my shadow seems to be following a little further behind
I'm loosing my grip on this steering wheel
Swivin in and out of traffic
I see Minivans and 18 wheelers
honking and blazing thier horns
I'm struggling to stay awake
but only 2 more hours and I'll be home
I dig in my glove compartment and pull out
a pre rolled cigarete and my Oney Box
I spark the cig and pack me a little one hitter
puff them both down fast
and drink my 3 hour old coffe I got at some rumie gas station
its cold as ****
but it'll do the trick
I scratch my eyes and my *****
and turn up the radio The Current is a little to Indie for this night ride
So I put on 93.6 The Blaze and listen to some As I Lay Dieing
Ironic I have'nt died yet....
I listen and tune in
and then I tune out as the white dotted line
directs me towards home
where my dog awaits
to greet me
it's been a long trip
yes it has
nja Jan 2019
Stinging morning coffee bliss acompanies the first cig of the day,
It’s all downhill from here.
Does normal things Goes to lecture
Lunchtime sugar low.
Self-destructive tendencies itching,
Beer kick - gets drunk.
Being constructive is crushing.
Goes to lecure
Mind numbing normality
Fearful of loneliness and needy, go waste some hours.
Its late. Restless.
Stoop on the street,
with friends. Anxious, ill.
Wasted night.
Collapse into a shallow sleep of self-loathing.
Repeated offence.
An acurate describition of my daily university life. Evident is my dependency on drugs and my fear of being alone. Both loneliness and 'mind-numbing normality' are perceived as a threat. The title comes from the french word for daily life to accentuate the repetition and spiraling.
Molly Claire May 2012
in dim light
smoke fills the room
lays a dusty filter
over the walls
covers my eyes

i close the windows
the blinds
the curtains
shut the door
lay a towel at the bottom
and suppress all light

i allow the fumes
to arrest my throat
entangle my body
around itself
and leave me fetal

and as my consciousness
becomes scarce
a smile spreads through my lips
and onto my face
my body, as numb as can be
Irate Watcher Sep 2014
you sleep on the floor.
Empty beer bottles
stain the edges of a
wooden coffee table.
Parking tickets
sit on the ironing board
that blocks the door.

you smoke a cig,
tie a flag into a bandana
and snapchat yourself
tripping on route 66
because L.A.
swallowed you at Sunset;
white text quotes
Hunter S. Thompson.
You're so ironic,
but you'll never be him.
So desert your phone
and take a real trip.
The only way to be the person we want to be is to confront the person we are today.
Cunning Linguist May 2014
Mad Hatter's getting narcissistic without his tea
That's how I feel when I can't burn things
but you can't spell "arsonist" without A-R-T

Maybe I'm crazy but honestly it's therapy

Bolt the door to the party and listen to them scream
Oceans of commotion won't extinguish my latest masterpiece
So kick back, fire up a cig
Get that influx of carcinogens
Conducive to my sick mind

Twisted nihilist
Got a pack of matches
Now I'm dreaming in a pipe

Erupt into flames
Sit back and look at all the pretty lights
The way they dance in the wind
Such an alluring sight
It's really just poetry in motion
As I watch through kaleidoscopic eyes

I'll smoke to that.
You make me want to burn down a
kindergarten and roast mallows upon
the smoldering remains
spacedrunk Feb 2017
i know how to deal with the wounds but i was never taught what to do with the blood
the meds may have chased away the monsters, but i'm not done playing dead
don't say it's over
Shashank Virkud Sep 2010
Already seven cars,
I pull in late.
Put my keys by the candles
and stare at the lake.

Sit down, sip your wine.
What's in? Where have you been?
How long since?
You never drop a line.
You must be busy.
I avoid your gaze
and your hand grazes
my thigh and brings us
eye to eye.

Ready for the bar,
we barely ate.

No shame in
the champagne
I consume,
but I assume
it's the fine wine
I spewed all over the ballroom.

Took it too far,
it's getting late.

You don't want me to stay.
Uninvited,how you always
made me feel anyways.
Turn in slighted, ******* futon.

Last time we met
we slept side by side,
you and me, two reasons to care.
The letter and the locket
you kept and tried to hide,
I think I need some fresh air.

light a cig and figure some things are better left unsaid.
Always tempted to trigger thoughts long dead.

Staring at you, asleep in your bed, linen, lace.
I always was a ***** case.
Your thoughts leak out of your head, thin in space.
I find them on your face.

Better not be here when you wake,
the next time we meet it'll be too late,
so hey, by the way,
you looked beautiful today.
Shashank Virkud- From As the Distance Grows
MAJD S Nov 2013
What are the reasons for death? Crime, cancer, car crashes? Sickness, sun burn, sarcasm? Gun shots, gas pedals, gaming consoles? What are the reasons for death? What makes death something we don’t experience every other day, like drinking coffee or smoking a cig. What if it is something we experience every day but on certain levels? Think, think, you’re running out of time, partial deaths are coming to you. Partial deaths are coming when she looks at your soul and discovers the flaws and uses them as a tool for hers. Partial deaths, are coming when he decides to return every ounce of care and infatuation of hers with indifference and insensibility of his. Partial deaths? do you think that in the upcoming years were going to have health coverage for that? “YOU NEVER KNOW WHEN IT HITS, MAKE SURE YOURE COVERED WHEN IT DOES manly voice for more information about partial death insurance contact 01000000”. All the zero’s in the world…the round hollows of infinite curvature and as soon as you think you’ve reached the end of your misery you’re going to start all over again and again and again, and again. And again. The partial deaths become more complete, the, heart strokes become heart stabs, the kisses become bites, and everything else is just raised up a notch, and a notch becomes a whole new level like never before. Day dream while you can when you can’t because that’s when we usually get our great ideas; the math class won’t end and it extends, like minutes were lifetime in her eyes as she walks up and down the trail of my thoughts and sideways on the horizon of my vision and inwards through my heart back flipping on my arteries and summersaulting on my veins leading her way to destroy my brains. My brains, that sounds odd. It sounds odd because I never located it really, at least not its functional capabilities because it is definitely not what I use to think. I think through a blank page that provokes me till I write, I think through  staring screens and flickering lines, I think through a round table that affectionately carries my black coffee, I think through my black coffee, I think through pink Floyd playing in my ears and the other voices that are not mine.  I think there for I am, but the more that I think the more I realize what I am not.
st64 Oct 2013
gently fall now
go to sleep . . . go to sleep
it's what you want, anyway
too witless
to see what tumbles into your mind
when your psyche decides to take that funnel-trip
into the curlicue-recesses you hate to find

there, on the edge of your ear sits a world
some troglodytes wait to inhabit

two inches deep into the toe of a steep-mountain
waits a hirsute creature to unlock your marsh-dreams

outside the bulge-belly of your *sick-and-*******-fat
stands an accosting evangelist to sort out your lovely-list of sin

a reticent boy reaches out to catch the flying-thing
between his fingers, he can feel the pulse of fright.. and he lets go

beyond the bland-sidelines of a mall's congested parking-lot
cries a pimply-teen, snotty-tears: get the hell out my head!

adolescent-parents make latent-choices born of lack
baby gets a cig-burn and unexplained accidental head-fall

a sufferer battles to survive the output of night-riding fiends
yet scoffs heartily at their existence in broad day-stacks

brother gabs to brothers, finds poor-sobriety in parochial world-eye
och, no matter - let little sister (s)weep succint-harmony

an unsettled-recoverer spits feverish some colourful flasher lingo-gobs
as nobody knows what threat he carries in his hacking-chest

busker-dreamer-***-star plays and plays to no-pay café-audience
it's called street-corner blues for those in the know

an ageing-dame tarries departure, yet smiles genially at all her guests
****, but are these flippin' noisy folk really related to me?

uninvited chap with wily-scythe comes by to help out some
only the sick can smell the rotting-book of his gaunt-art

there awaits a pestilence within dark-cartwheels you can't see
well, all because you're too blasted-blind to lick that-a crap-wax out!

(mind so asleep)

wake . . . UP...!

guess not, huh?
wait then.. until that moonlight slants your way again
and then, guess whose mind will be sweet-milked
and your fine-assurance be stunning-hostage
as you shut-down wide-open thoughts
the things you close debate on
in the dayyyyyyy-time..
better be ready
to daydream
into your

how elegiac a tribute then
the unwoken..

tất cả chúng ta ngủ..

S T - 25 ox-axe
axe ****** judgment of others..!

yeah, I think.. tonight - I'm a-gonna HOWL at that silent, mocking moon.. wake up all them sad and lonely-monsters inside.. I mean, who do they have to talk to.. ??
ok, relax.. joke!
                          ha ha, said the brown-cow.. mooooooh..
or.. I'll just smile politely.. again.. and wink at the night-sky :)

sub-entry: when

when will we wake up
to see
that the world is NOT
what we think it is
or what we see

when will we
wake UP..
and see that
the cloak is

(nice self-imposed penalty.. just nice)
pt Sep 2018
how would life be
if we lived in a
     house of balloons?

     i would hate it.

every morning
i would wake up
and *****

i would shatter
    glass table.

i would walk
among the shreds
of bursted latex
and shards
of broken glass
cutting my feet to bits.

i would drench
the furniture
in kerosene
and light up a cig
and drop the ****
in the path of the fuel.
causing the
     house of popped balloons
     broken glass tables
to go up in flames.

only to go to bed
and repeat it the next day.
because im too scared to move out
but too attached to leave.
so i do what i can
to make myself feel
     in control
hopefully the girls got off the tables before i shattered them, poor things.
Mike Bergeron Sep 2012
I'm the spark
That started
The fire when
The retirement
Home burned alive,
I'm the guy who
Sold the quarter
To Cianci's daughter
That bought her
A place
In that lake
Of boiling water,
I'm the knife
In the mugger's hand
That ended the life
Of a family oriented
American man
For an American Made
Minivan that was
Worth less than
A single grand,
I'm the hand on the arm
That held the pen
That signed the plans
To build the bombs
That were dropped
Upon Japan,
I'm the disease
That multiplied the cells
That sent Bukowski
His way
To Hell,
I'm the wind
That fueled the fires
When the towers
I'm the blade
That took the sight
From Oedipus
When he took delight
In his mother's kiss,
I'm the cold
Air in an
Empty grave,
I'm the corner
Of the stove
On which you always
Stub your toe,
I'm the snow
That slicked the road
And sent your brother
Into reality's
Reunion show,
I'm the smoke
That filled the throat
Of a crying infant
And choked it
Into a memory,
I'm the repititious lie
That sent the witches
To burn alive
In Salem
And Spain,
I'm the trigger
On the gun
That blew the brain
Of Kurt Cobain,
I'm to blame
For the way *******
Destroys the lives
Of the otherwise sane,
I'm the voice
That told Sam's son
To wipe the smile
From America's fat face
While satisfying
Their perverted taste
For people dying,
I'm the nails
On the fingers
That Barkovitch
Used to scratch
The long-walk-itch
When he ripped
Out his own throat,
I'm the one
Who swung the vote
To elect a bush
As dumb as a goat,
I'm the bullet
That pierced
The vest on
Kyle Joe's chest
And laid him to rest
In Exeter,
I'm the snake
That charmed
The leaf
Right off of Eve,
The way that
The constant
You seem
To need.

Or maybe you're just in a
Bad mood, and I'm still the
Same dude who sat with you
While the three day fever
Ripped through your body,
Stroking your hair and
Wiping the sour sweat from
Your forehead while you
Hallucinated demons that
Emerged from your chest,
Slightly below your left
Breast, to fly in patterns and
Synchronized formations
Through the caverns of your imagination.

Maybe I'm still the guy who
Held you through the night
Your mother died, wiping
Every tear that you cried,
Spending that hour sitting
Outside while the jewel
Encrusted air surrounded us
Like a never ending chasm of
Golden despair, splitting
Myself like a uranium atom
For you to be warmed by the
Reaction inside.

Maybe I'm still the one you
Saw from across the smoke
Filled dive saloon with a pint
Of Harpoon, who saw you as
The only shining light in a
Darkened room, who talked
To you and told you stories
And complimented the
Sundress you bought off Tobi,
Even though you
Told me really,
The weather
Wasn't quite right for it.

Maybe I'm still the one you
Wake up to in the middle of
The night, sweat sticking us
To the sheets and each other,
Because the heat's been
Broken going on seventeen
Weeks and we fell asleep
Without opening the window again.

Maybe I'm still the man who
Makes you breakfast every
Morning so you can sleep in
A little bit, so you can read
The latest Dig with your
Coffee and cig before you
Head to the ******* lab that
Makes you feel sick twelve
Hours later, the man who's
Waiting at home after to
Listen to your complaints
About the day and say the
Things you want to hear

"You're totally right,
They're completely wrong,
I love you dear,
Your hair is a song
That fills the air
And fills my ears
And fills my stomach
With warmth and light"

Maybe I'm a fool.
Maybe people don't change,

Or maybe they do, overnight,
And I'm to blame.

Either way,
I still feel
The same
As when we took
The same last name
Ten years ago
Sam Moore Jan 2014
i just turned 17 and i bought a ****** e-cig
off some guy in venice.
it squeaks when i try to use it
and the vapor scares my cat,
and i’m in love with this girl who tried it
while she was tangled up in my sheets —
she said she hated it but hey,
i just turned 17 and i can’t be the only kid
in this city who doesn’t need a nicotine fix.
on thursday nights i stand outside coffee shops
with the ones who smoke those reds
and blues and velvet blacks
that come in wooden boxes like fine cigars.
i hate that scene but i’m addicted to it
because i just turned 17 and everything
about me is being reshaped like play-doh.
my mom calls it impressionable, i call it fearless.
i just turned 17 and i’d like to think i’m not as insecure
as i feel, but i had to move the full-length mirror
out of my room and nothing i do counts
unless i put it on instagram.
i just turned 17 and that’s the age all the
songs are about, the year of dancing queens
and cheap red wine and sneaking through
the suburbs to get to your girlfriend’s house.
i used to think i wanted to see the world but
i just turned 17 and i can’t stop falling in love
with the city i live in —
you can’t see too many stars here but it feels
safer that way, like i’m less likely to float into space.
tethered is a good thing to be,
at least until all the different parts of me
finally get strung together.
i just turned 17 and i’m scared the nicotine
can’t hide that i’m just a work in progress.
C J Baxter Aug 2014
Ten a day. It was the classy way
to **** ones self.
Swords and pens, pens and swords.
Let out the smoke- it’s quiet grey
Presence only whispers bad health.  

So entranced by it's swirling movement.
I forget what it might be doing-
Or not doing.
Whichever way the ash settles,
That way my health will be ensuing .

I’ve grown tired of worrying now-
Heard all the caution the doctor spouts.
See my life is tied to this ashtray;

It’s full of little doubts.
John Carpentier Dec 2013
I like fried egg sandwiches because they taste good
and Blackbird or Banana Pancakes
will earn me one or two
at the nicer fronts in Brooklyn.
Take these broken wings and learn to fly,
says the cute West Coast redhead as she tosses me my meal.

I’d make another stop at Seattlebucks just for kicks
and caffeine,
but I know they’d kick me out.
My guitar frightens them.
His cream and seafoam green
clashes with their black and emerald,
and his whammy bar looks too much like part of a cappuccino machine.

My jacket is stinking again
so I truck on over to 7th street
where a trendy Asian kid nods his head to Otherside
and cleans it dry.

As long as I’m there
I put on my sunglasses at Union Square
so I can stare at the clouds while I strum.
Case throws himself on the stone
and sighs philosophically, “Why Donate?”

Now I’m no second rate city musician,
I’m the best of the best of the best sir.
I play gently and never yell.
I remember how stressful morning commutes were.
Don’t let me darken your door
that’s not what I came here for.

A big guy in a silver suit strolls over
and asks me if I sell CDs.
I scoff and tell him only losers listen to CDs.
I tell him I like his tie
and he throws it to Case.
Case catches and says, “Well ****.”
I will wait for you
I tell the man
and he says
the sun it rises slowly as I walk.

I exhaust all of my Ed Sheeran
searching for lunch but come up dry.
When my stomach’s empty my pipe isn’t
so I sweat a little
and Case channels his inner Yoda
saying, “Worry don’t.”

He hands me a granola bar and I protest
because it’s one of his last,
but sometimes you just can’t argue
with a grumbling belly
and a good friend.

I try my luck in the squares today because the circles are too open.
Herald treats me better than Times
which isn’t surprising
because in one I’m a novelty
and in the other, out of date.

Hey get rhythm
when you’ve got the blues
seems like silly advice from a sad musician,
but apparently not everyone’s a critic.

Case scoops up enough for a Big Mac and fries but
I forget the fries while Case protests
saying, “Will, don’t,”
but he knows just as well as I
that guitar needs new strings and now we’re only short $1.66

I walk and talk to myself
while I eat and end up back home
or one home
at the center of Central
where there’s a boulder like a schooner in an ocean of grass.
Tonight there are 6 stars out which is pretty good
all things considered.

Collective sigh
as guitar hums Coldplay,
I spark a cig,
Case yawns, “We done,”
and we doze off.
The second section of a longer narrative poem. Parts 1 & 3 can be found on my profile.

— The End —