"cigarillo" poems
A buzz-saw a buzzing
Looking back through time
It's no longer the problem
That I thought it was
The tap-tap-tap of hammer on nails
Sitting here smoking a cigarillo
Drinking iced coffee
And thinking of my prime
I make few friends
Sometimes I can't even trust those
Often they drive up
And want to stay which way and when
I'm having oral *** with my trumpet
While holding hands with the dark
I shout out to the heavens
My eyes so full of stars
I dropped a letter to my Doctor
Giving him my order
Soon I will be flush
Not bothered by anything
I always go through them
Way too fast
Then I sit there in the corner
Licking my wounds
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 1:56 PM UTC
Coolers of alcohol
Blueberry shisha
Blazing bonfire
I'm having fun
Who are you to judge me?
Empty beer cans
Ashy coals
Cigarillo butts
I'm a little dizzy
Who are you?
Spilt *****
Tipped hookah
****** advances
I can't move
"Who..are..."
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 3:53 PM UTC
That droll, little romance
was my first cigarette
an Indonesian clove cigarillo.
A year or two gone now,
but I still remember the sensation,
all the adrenaline and the drugs!
It was that nice, accurate drag,
that perfect ****
of smoke and nicotine.
Love was a potent buzz.
It had laughter.
The high.
It - the passion and ardor -
...so good.
And the subsequent addiction!
I craved it,
took more than there was.
Smoked it to the ****
so fast
it was over before I realized it.
All that remained:
the fizzle of tobacco embers,
the quick-to-dry sweat
of the uninitiated.
Then the desperation.
I wanted it to work!
I smacked my lips for more of the sweetness.
Searched desperately inside
for only a sickness in my stomach
and poison on my tongue.
I’ve stopped smoking now,
but I will always be
just a little closer
to death
than I should be.
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 1:45 AM UTC
Punk Sandwich
there he is walking down the street
slicked back hair and a thin mustache
high rise collar on his button down shirt
sparkle in his eye and always talkin trash
he loved his Italian beef on pumpernickel rye
he loved his mama and his brothers too
he wasn't your ordinary everyday punk
there was so much more and you knew he knew
fear for him does not exist or so he claims
quicker than a bolting flash of light
behind you with a jagged edge of blade
he is no one to challenge to a fight
he has connections to all the right ones
the ones you need to know for security
or to make some annoyance disappear
his word is golden shinning with a purity
a perfect friend intelligent courteous and brave
but these can all change to weapons of death
if you are so disposed to challenge his way
it just might be your very last breath
after dropping you in a pool of disguise
he will tip his fedora with playful grace
back on his brow and cigarillo between his lips
and that same old smirk upon his face
Gomer LePoet...
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 11:53 AM UTC
2/20/2015
"*Lust too is a jewel
a sweet flower and what
pure happiness to know
all our high-toned questions
breed in a lively animal.*"
Adrienne Rich
So these days i find myself
scouring the somewhat stolid sure shores of
of seeming lust, which Adrienne Rich says is a jewel.
I don't see it
this lenten weekend.
I didn't give anything up,
maybe i'd switched from walking out of dorms into
walking out of cars, right? I laugh as I say this, not really ready
to say I am empty since I was taught to never lie and I do not feel this
after all,
More like a solid breathing discomfort at the squelching snow
on my solid leather workman's boots
lighting a cigarillo with a spark lighter and wondering what
you're up to.
My love's not so easily gained, i'd written once in a diary entry
and I suppose maybe it isn't,
but maybe it is the weather because
things didn't go as fast as I had liked this past
baptismal season but they still seemed fine.
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 9:20 AM UTC
He met her at a bar
in San Pellegrino
Yeah, like the water
but there was more wine
than water there
She was flicking a guitar
that she called "Bambino"
Her papa taught her
but she wasn't the kind
so easy to share
They slept inside his car
outside an old casino
The nights were hotter
than he'd ever find
anywhere
He said she'd be a star
but what the hell did he know?
**** gypsy daughter
broke into his mind
then left him there
She could only go so far
on his euros incognito
The polizia caught her
the guitar left behind
she'd tied him to a chair
She'd emptied out his jar
and his last good cigarillo
Shouldn't a brought her
she's serving time
Bambino in his care
He met her in a bar
in San Pellegrino
He said she'd be a star
what the hell did he know?
Aug 12, 2010
Aug 12, 2010 at 11:42 PM UTC
I've never been addicted to anything.
A couch and a beer is home with you.
Cigarillo smoke is better when shared.
But I've never been addicted to anything.
Your skin electrifies my senses.
I hallucinate your voice when my mind is free.
Well… I can quit when ever I want.
Your lips make me shake at night.
Your eyes give me the nods.
I just don’t want to right now.
I’ll fight all the demons
for another bowl of you.
Anything, anything for another hit.
Your curves are crystal.
Your smile is nicotine.
I've never been addicted to anything.
But my mind is full of the thought
of what cold turkey would do to me.
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 11:22 PM UTC
We lived through song.
Church hymns, jazz, and folk music.
We jirated, danced, and moved to any beat we could.
Because when we moved, our minds were at peace.
We didn't think.
Didn't think of our children being murdered.
Beaten.
Lynched.
Burned.
White America will tell us that period of history is over.
But I know it to be untrue.
Because I still see our children being murdered.
Killed in cold blood.
Left to bleed out in the streets.
Only this time,
people aren't gathering in groups.
They're not rioting against us.
Happening all over the globe,
cops are turning into murderers.
A boy who stole a cigarillo,
shot dead point blank in the head.
A man with an open carry permit,
shot in the chest with his baby in the back seat.
A woman going to jail for a broken headlight,
hung by jail guards.
I don't recognize my country anymore.
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 9:21 PM UTC
I used to find a pop bottle
And cash it in for a two-cent grab-bag.
Three could get me a five-cent
Wine-dipped cigarillo
To smoke in the dug-out on a Sunday afternoon
With my best friend.
We went door-to-door
Collecting bottles, clothes-hangers and baskets,
Get fifteen cents and play a game in the pool hall;
We traded old Supermans for older Batmans.
Successive generations decrie
Their loss of innocence,
But this one tweets, twitters and instas;
I see ultra-sounds of small penises, and more.
There goes the last surprise.
I'd rather loose innocence than privacy,
For after that,
All you've left
Is the skin of your teeth.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 11:40 AM UTC
undated
Autumnal leaf air,
with the historical cut of princetonian guile
I walk toward the dull exonerated street
she looks heavenward; asks for a cigarillo
tahiti bean
we never questioned our being,
we just floated and
the capsicum katana slicing our
corneas into julienne,
I tell her I can't, I quit,
never knowing quite what to do
smoking in june outside a wedding with the boys
she cuts me off, fast it's back to
thinking of melting flower pots and broiled
confectioner's sugar in my tiptoe mind-
my toes are flat on the ground I walk with a gait,
lifting my heels as if i myself seemed an aristocratic soul
I look up
she has walked away
toward the
candy store
to buy licorice
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 8:49 PM UTC
Copyrights and patents
"What up reality?"
"Whatch you got for me today?"
The Marksman ****** on his cigarillo
His voice was distinct
A whirring voice
Vocable word choices
A man of great aptitude
Never blinked, never winced
With acute paranoia
And a metallic nucleus
Daft
He heard voices
Egging him on
Baiting him
Taking ****
Nuisances
"How's the ulcer oh glorious gunman?"
They said
"Hurts doesn't it?"
"Ready to give out?"
"Put that plastic bag on your head and end it"
The Marksman pivoted and headed toward the kitchen
And made a stew of whatever he could find under the sink
And ate it
"Hail to the chief and send my complements to the chef!"
He put the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger
He was buried and had the most dignifying funeral I ever had the privilege of attending
-Tommy Johnson
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
tattered flags, wedding dress trains
white fringe, cached in dirt road
like baggy jeans, converse worn like religion.
Stockholm syndrome, always ran away
never left home, delicately telling
time wearing, down eight years
down in the basement, duct-tape cuffed
to a chair, bandage torn off slow
like a drag, on a thick cigarillo
from fat lips, fat teeth
fat, you know the drill
ear didn't clover though, despite her Irish eyes
she isn't lucky, enough
to have scars, that we can see
green with liberty
she is tall, held fire until it shattered
in '17, now she has flash backs
when men in black, held a pen
to her nose and clicked, now
she's just a rumor,
"I hear she used to represent freedom"
"I never knew her"
I believe,
if the statue of liberty had a voice;
and she does...
I believe,
if the statue of liberty had red heels;
she could run...
I believe,
if the statue of liberty was a mother;
and she was,
she would have died,
a loud, running, mother,
too young.
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 7:51 PM UTC
If there was a sword that cut the knot
I never got the joke
never smoked a cigarillo or
blew blue rings that curled like arms
around a girl I knew.
Took some different winding track which
took me back through vocal chords
Christmastime and leaping Lords
and apples in the stockings hanging
from the
mantlepiece.
and when the black cat got my tongue
it made me swear,
not much fun when dad found out
a clout and bed
no supper,
though fed up,
how strange.
That merry dance down the river banks
splashing through the stepping stones.
What now?
creaking bones that tell the tales
of ships that sailed
of dockyard nights and when
Northern lights shone in my eyes
to me it was no great surprise
I loved it all.
Jun 18, 2016
Jun 18, 2016 at 3:55 PM UTC
Watching the fog as it lifts clear of the day is
like watching a life drifting slowly away,
slowly meandering
hither and yon
( hither and yon are words soon to be gone)
and a Mexican with a mandolin
pulls on a cigarillo
as he pops a cloud with a pin,
daydreams and Sunday
Church
in this house of a higher creation
it's half past six and time to
get your skates on,
ps
Babylon does not come after Epsilon
but it's all Greek
which is nice,
May 30, 2021
May 30, 2021 at 1:38 AM UTC
Now really peep the game though
Gotta change my scenario
Sit back and charge a cigarillo
Stop ******* with them kilos
Hopped from a Benzo to low low
Glasshouse with the pokin' 84s
Foes is hoppin' guns is poppin'
Body droppin'
Once I let off aint non stoppin'
Claimin' I'm insanity in these streets
Wish I never met pistol pete
Cuz of life he greets
In the presence of where
Darkness meets
And enemies love to compete
But everyday is a battle
Stuck In a. Give with 24 **** hours to live
Yeah
So beautiful life used to be
Well hell naw lets turned
Back to slavery
Where all of my peeps used to see
Bright and sunnt
Locked in whips and chains
For the entertainment industry
Now that I gotten a little wiser
My mind explodes like a geyser
On the earth in the wind
Blowin fire hot as a dryer
To my flows I kick ya desire
Many rhymes come in a style
Been a wild since I was a child
Played foul never did I smile
I'm givin sonic booms like guile
Been while
Since I step on the scene
Mean as Joe Greene
Aimmin' macks at soft peens
Being a hero ain't what it really means.and it seems
No matter how hard I fight live
I only got 24 mo' to give 24 hours to live
Oct 10, 2017
Oct 10, 2017 at 5:58 AM UTC
I step out into the cold night,
the town creeks under a blanket of Fahrenheit diamond.
the smoke from my cigarillo wraps around my face,
pleasing the senses with the aroma of tobacco
and wood stoves glowing in the January night.
an ally cat passes in to the night,
I sip from a bottle cognac, as it coats my tongue and warms a breath.
the sound of jazz drifts in the air, leaning against a street light,
waiting for the 2 am freight, and a hi ball ride out west.
bags packed light and foolish, a whistle blows, snow set in.
I hop my car and head in to the darkness
to see new places.not knowing where I'm bound
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 8:36 PM UTC