I wanna smoke a cigarrette with Obama

We’ll lower the sound on Futurama

He will hand me a pack of Marlboro or Newport

He will puff I will puff

Life will be like a resort

We will talk about politics and in vain

Puff again puff again puff again puff again

We would smoke and we would quit

He will swear again

For six years ”no cigarrettes lit”

I will quit smoking too

We will play peekaboo

And turn the volume back up on Futurama

I will boast to my friends

I quit smoking again with Obama

I cut my hair,
the tips that you liked curlying around your fingers while you sang are now gone.
I painted it with sunshine rays,
To surround me with all the light I've been needing since the last time I got blinded by yours.
And that flock of hair that was shorter from that time I accidentally burned it trying to light you a cigarrette, the one that made me smile with its stubborness to stay still, the one that reminded me of our first night, it has growned.

and here we are again
on this page of a book called dreams.
as the moon & the city becomes our lightbulb
and the end of your cigarrette burning
like how time burns when we're together.
on our blood are paint produced by love
and we color these streets with the color of romance.
in that moment we understood
why people call life a jigsaw puzzle
because everything is falling into pieces
and here forms the picture we were always trying to build.
we understood why painters
mix different hues of a color to create a new hue of that color
because a hue that's a little bit different
wouldn't fit into this painting we call "right now."
the words and the world molds into one
and turning the page doesn't make sense.

but we cant help but roll the thought
of a burned out cigarrette being thrown to the ground
once it no longer gives warmth & light.
we cant help but lose the passion
and we'll brush a lighter shade of color
because something is missing & we cant seem to find it.
slowly by slowly puzzle pieces will be misplaced
and we wont understand this picture anymore.
one day, we'll push each other away
unbeknownst to you and me
then we'll be similar poles of a magnet
which will drift apart from each other.

i will be pained
and although i'll wish you'll miss me
but i hate seeing you hurt
so i'll just hurt myself with the mere thought that your mouth wont form my name again
and every memory of us that you'll remember
you'll wish to forget
while i am here holding on to every bit of you that i can grasp.

so whenever someone tells you they wont hurt you
or you'll say your love is greater than your intention of pain,
remember that your heart is a muscle the size of your fist.

Do you taste it?
The ease and cool mystification she gives you…
The addiction like a passionate revival

Do you feel it
The gratification she grants
BAM you’re baked like a cake
Her lips like a love potion
Her hips like LSD and you’re riding the cool waves of Janis Joplin

Do you need it?
That midnight body on you like I did
Those ******* hands, that ******* tenderness

Do you **** it?
Like there is no tomorrow, do you make that body quease under you?

Little do you know she’s toxic, like a cigarette between your teeth
Swallowing the forsaken **** up that is your whole being
She is like a tear rolling down your cheek, exposing you.
You’re in deep and in love with a *******…
Cigarette

can I be your cigarette

so you can pull me out
of a black dark box

so you can light me up
when I’m cold

so you can keep me on
your lips

so you can inhale me
even though you know
how toxic I am

but you don’t really care
cause you love that feeling
in your lungs

i dreamed i smoked a cigarrette
felt its silky breath glide down my insides
calming and resolving what felt unsettled
as i walked with midnight, my solitary companion,
down a deep blue lit street

can i even describe the purity that silky white substance
introduced at the bottom of my belly
how clean and calm it felt--almost sweet
yet mixed with guilt and fear of addiction
and everything i had been told and knew
it was nothing like i knew a cigarette to be

what was it i dreamed up a cigarette to calm
what is it that stirs in me, unsettled
that i can't seem to resolve
what am i not finding in my waking hours
that i needed to escape to my dreams to resolve,
what in me craves to taste the smoke that
i've never waking let inside my lungs

Your love was like a cigarrette.
It burned brightly and took my breath away
like nicotine I was addicted to it every day.
And the desire burned in me to see you again
but as a cigarrette it was soon over,
never enough, but forever gone.

effortlessly wearing a cigarrette on her lips
head tilted high with one hand on her hips
a dizzyingly incandescent, nicotine laugh
i think i'd die for her
write that on my epitaph

Smoke rolls off your lips
As raindrops drip
Off the roof, above where you sit
Barely missing the lit end
Of your cigarrette
And ill make you a bet
By the end of this night
None of this will mean ****
Youll be to drunk to remember it

Youll run down back alleys
With girls you jusy met from cali
Away from cops tryna tally
You up as an arrest
Rally the rest
Into a **** sesh like youre towlie
Find all your friends have left
Have to hitch-hike back to campus
A drunken high mess

But when the next test comes
Youll drink away your stress
Head to the closest party
Spend all your money on drugs, not rent
But when that doesnt help you vent
Climb into bed with that hottie you just met

Yeah *****
This is college
After this were all set... right?
Or should we think bout whats next? ... G'night

mismanaged prostitution
barbed wire kisses
telephone breathing
hands on white thighs
digging fingers
hardened
crows feet
crones cry
another drink
something hard to drown a sorrow
to **** a cigarrette in
lick my lips
******* revulsion..

My guilty pleasure is not a piece of chocolate after a long day, or bumming a cigarrette off of a stranger. Rather, I guiltily find pleasure in imagining how much better you taste on my lips than those trivial pleasures. The sheer thought of your lips on me makes me guilty with an undying want for the pleasure of your lips.

oh cigarrette i love you so
out of my mouth the smoke i blow
i love when you get that red glow
instead of shrinking i wish you would grow

he was standing on the curb
a bearded man with a wool cardigan
a striped one, made for the winter
by strange hands and thrown away for him
to find it between pizza boxes in an alley.
now I know he was a beggar, but
at that time, when I was four,
he looked like a funny old man;
he blew the smoke from his cigarrette in the night air
and he glanced at me
as my family got inside the ice cream shop -
where the ice cream people are, you know.
I had fruit salad in a goblet
and laughed at my father's silly panama hat
and imagined what I'd be when I grew old.
my mother offered me her hand and we went to the car;
I kneeled in the backseat, staring through the rear view window
I saw the alluring lights of the city
and the leather-dressed people standing in front of bars
and the funny old man lying in a pool of tomato juice
in the same curb I saw him just before;
my sister yelled something I don't remember
and started crying as my father called the police.
I sat on the backseat covering my eyes with my hands
and hoped that those deafening sounds would stop
and felt so awkward and so thoughtful
for not understanding that completely.

today, I think about the funny old man
dressed in striped clothes lying in that curb
and realise that that was not tomato juice,
but the key to the understanding of my mind,
the only thing that could make a four-yeard-old kid
wonder about the death, simple as it is,
and about the things that made someone
stick a knife in a beggar's belly.

AT 20,000 FEET
such as it
reciprocates
our biological rights demands.
our genetic material reciprocate magnetism.and your seat cushion may be used as a flotation device
how couldn't i?
at 20,000 feet
drunk as ****,
clinging to a chair,
clinging to each other,
clinging to the air,
this plane is quite obviously crashing,
but betwixt flames,
and screams,
shouts
of the crew
as we
all know
we
are
to
die, through
the shouts of all this
through every waking moment
through the snow
and the rain
through death
through pain
and ****
i would climb through sewers
i would swim through a lake of radiation
i would overturn every stone in chernobyl
and never
would i find.
ten whiskeys deep
and i think
"oh ****,
what am i getting myself into?"
and then
"really,
i don't even give a ****"
and then
"christ,
i need a cigarrette"
and then,
at the end of the day
all that really matters
is whether or not
you
svghjkgtorijhbnjkcvf

tonight
the wailing wind
is my bane
as i look through the pane
of the hard crust of my pain
and wonder how i got to be this way
a homeless drifter on an elite highway
exhaling cigarrette smoke like a chimney
in the numbness of a freezing winter spell
selling a dozen crabby tales for a quarter
to bored yuppies aching for kicks
along the stiff terrain they must negotiate
to reach the peaks i scaled before i fell from grace
the whispering breeze tonight
is my lullaby as i struggle to sleep on my feet
and capture these rare moments of life in heat
on a day when a girl's smile is everything
and a stale slice of bread makes me a gourmet
dining on the rancid cast-aways of a third rate cafe
the twinkling stars tonight
are my peers as we help each other through the night
and a call-of-the wild song keeps playing in my heart;
it says classics are melodies woven in moments of adversity
and that i must continue to hog the fringes of society
and *****-nilly help salve the consciences of those who need someone
to throw the rich crumbs of their excesses at

I know what I'm worth.
From death to birth, I'll have possessed value for self,
I will not be placed on anyone's shelf to sit and gather dust.
I will not play games,
and I'm not ashamed,
I am not here to be framed and hung on a wall.
I am alive.
Possesed with thoughts like bullets,
My gun is aimed, cocked, and loaded,
Ready to fire at a pin-drop.
I won't be dropped,
like your cigarrette butts,
chucked,
left for the wind to decide my fate.
I am worth more
than a text message
I am more
than small talk
I will not be fooled
when you tell me I am the coolest person you know,
Because you don't know me anymore than the gentleman making your coffee.
Your words mean nothing,
when used in such numerous repetition.
And I'll be ****** if you actually petition
to listen to what I have to say.
I know what I am worth,
and it is strikingly more than what you presume.

I have been trying to stop romanticizing introductions
Attempting to grasp the reality
That not everyone I meet is a potential soulmate
My mind was just born open I guess
Conditioned to want to love at first sight
I am more so addicted to people than I am smoking
I have been trying my hardest
To keep my expectations low
Understand that not everybody has the intention of staying
I have had too many hellos turn into goodbyes
And
Too many hugs turn to leaving
I had been trying
To learn the opposite of welcome
Embrace temporariness with arms as wide as my eaget heart
So when we met
On a directionless sunday
In the living room you were calling home for the week
Know that
It took everything in my power
To not let down my guard
It wasn't until the quiet of the night
That I realized
I had already dropped
Goodnight turned to words to questions
To 3am caress
I was in your arms before I could even stop myself from letting go
But you
Are not the meaningless
One night momentary bliss I am used to
You
Are everything I have tried to avoid
For fear of losing again
I am trying to figure out how it is possible
That you are the kind of thing I'd been attempting to refrain from
Yet exactly what I want at the same time
You are the nicotine from the 5am cigarrette on your last night in town
Your goodbye serving as reminder to everytime I have been let down
But there was more hope in your seven letter goodbye
Than there is in any poem I have ever written
I am saying grace in a language that I still do not fully understand
And although both distance and time
Are two names that usually define ending
I see beginning
I see different
When we kissed
I could taste the promise of future on your lips
My hands spelled out in the creases of your back
Said exactly the same as you did before you left
Said please don't forget me
So please
Don't.

The curtains were stained and yellow
like his teeth,
nicotine and despair and food too heavy
his hands tremble as he lights another.
Breath rancid,eyes almost closed
he looks behind him
and sees the pain of a life lived
children lost
once removed.
Hands gnarled with meaningless labor
hold cigarrette to lips pursed
and unforgiving.

****
I Hate this ****
Aggravated faith Vs. Masochistic taste
Seep and stains the screen I frame with
Weightless words, time taken to assure

The fake sincerity makes me sick.

A reactive phrasing fabricated naturally
Placating waves of faces waiting to for their turn to say 'I'm Running Late'.
Now games on with strange men who make friends that know me, who show off these women from craigslist like trophies, I see she's an A-list employee who enjoys the work and I start to sweat, she might break my heart but I call to check, she's on the way and I settle debts, then I'm done.

Insult to injury, my impulsive witchery, her careless fake name engagement doesn't conceal my betrayal felt.
Great lame dumb freight train stuck eight lanes of state strays search daily to entertain my ******* wife with *******. I'm done.

Last straw, I've had it, was this rom-com or tragic, papa don-jon in the attic telling me to leave it be and keep at it, but I'm numb, dumb and emphatic, my Jessica rabbit is long gone, her swan song a hat trick, **** that chick grew wings quick, cleaned out her **** like mary pip, packed and pomp she asked to sit, smile set smug, with a cigarrette to her lips, she exhaled and leaned in, I'm still confused about todays events when her voice spoke that final cent, it said
"I always win."

Truthfully, it's the last thing I remember, and then I wake up alone with some bottles of gin to the police brutally beating on my door, and my wife adorning the walls.

cigarrette smell room
pungent scent of *** pounds air
essence of journey

What do I know about you, really?
For certain, only a few things.
Nothing about pictures or loves,
about the ghosts in your heart,
or something as simple as your cigarrette brand.
I've noticed that I know just enough
so I can never reach.

We can die laughing, that's true
and that is important for someone
who doesn't laugh enough. As I.

If I told you that I wouldn't mind to know
what make your eyes like two burnt holes in a blanket,
would you shred my ears to pieces?

If I confessed that I hang on your words
like a thrilled coward, that I have died many times,
would you fell silent?

These are the kind of questions
someone who doesn't know have.

I accept that I also keep people in the dark.
Flying blind, they must think "here goes nothing",
while they yearn for the ground. Have I done that to you?

If I was to fling myself onto you, for that matter,
absurd as the notion sounds, would you flinch away
and ask me to give my head a shake?

I know we are getting into the realm of imposible things,
of things that can blow in my face. Don't mind me,
let me quietly keep on barking to the moon.

Let's get this to a conclusion.
Of the few things I know, one is this:
you told me you are dark chocolate.
I will be sincere and confese that
I don't see where you're coming from.
One thing I know and I tell you now,
your are sweeter than that.

1/22/07

3:33 AM



the practical reasons as to why i am still awake
have all gone away
and left me to fend for myself

so i'll hang out this window
with my dull cigarrette
a puny flicker
in comparison to your eyes
and to this overpowering night sky

and as i stand alone and whisper
to the slowly passing breeze
asking for reasons why
and why not
i'll take the time
to suppose

suppose this all works out
suppose you're everything i need

(how does it feel to know you're everything i need?)

suppose you loved me
suppose you even gave a ****

my mouth tingles
with the newly flavored spark
your taste still on my lips
the lightening jolt
right to my mouth
senses picking up where they left off
remembering your warm skin against mine
and now i'm salivating
at the chance of once again being your lover

as i realize



i just lit up another.

Curves under your dress
Girl you really impress
Nights of drinking
Different kinds of smokes in the air
Constantly,cigarrette in between those beautiful fingers on your left hand
But still,kind as a saint
You share even the smallest in your possession
The way you are ever ready to hear out others and help them with their challenges,
Makes you even more likable
Shiny Bright eyes,fresh as a new day
You are such a perfect mess
Arousing attitude that makes you such a perfect catch
That smile with teeth so white like they are bleached daily
Your laugh so heartwarming like a well-made cup of coffee on a cold morning
Curves under your dress swerve, Left and right when you move
You are indeed such a beauty to behold
I love how you are ever so bold
Even when you are really old,
I guarantee that you'll still shine like purified gold
You are such a perfect mess,
I can never ever forget our first ever kiss.

Copyright Reserved By Emanzi Ian
2020
1 July

Sometimes,
There is no point
In holding onto hope.
Sometimes
You just
exisit.
Maybe you are cast away,
Riding on the notes of of a piano
That drift into the empty lobby.
Where the carpet reminds you of your first apartment.

Maybe sometimes its all nonsense that fills your mouth and hoodwinks the special moments that shouldve felt like a rising sun after hours sitting in the cold. Thinking of revalations.

Maybe this cigarrette tastes like nihilism and the smoke looks like you feel.

Maybe your fingers are burning with lust of creation but the rest of you cant catch up.

Maybe you swallow and shift in your seat trying to peice together the exact moment that you couldnt stand waking up anymore. Maybe this nothing just isnt enough and you need more because the ciggarets stopped working a month ago and everytime you see yourself in the mirror its a shade of blue youve never seen before. And maybe in the shower with your head pressed agaisnt the tile you wonder how well the water would mix with your blood and how long the curtains could hide the scene.

Maybe when you look at the stars it doesnt look like forever but feels like a box with little pinholes poked in the top so you can get just enough air. Maybe your chest collapses trying to figure out how to breath again and maybe nothing helps and it all tastes like ash and maybe you punch the ground, ****** your knuckles and look at the damage with a strange curious numbness wonder what just happened.

Maybe tomorrow...

Maybe not.

ever watched that film
hostel (Eli Roth, 2005)...
and then...
watch the video
by lindsay shepherd:
the ****** string
enthusiast of british
columbia?

no?
i guarantee you
it's worth a night to
remember...

also, when i was in Poland
and i took my
grandmother to
hospital,
i went outside
the hospital for a cigarrette
only to be approached
by a man
who told me of his
emigration experience
after Poland
joined the E.U.,
in England,
of all places...
working the conveyor
belt of a recycling
center...

what did i hear?
oh, you know...
how he used
to sieve through the plastics,
the papers, the tin cans,
and find ******,
or the miscellaneous
of *** other toys...

bag them,
wash them back home
in a bath...
pack them...
and sell them in
*** shops
back in Poland
"as if" unused...

my *******
practices?
quiet... sterile...
i wish this story
just came akin to:
a cat in a bag...

the conveyor belt guy
simply assumed
that the British
were hyper-******:
erotomania...

i guess...
i noted the same observation
with regards to
h. p. lovecraft...
or any other anglo-saxon...
the hyper-inflated
dream-world,
or, rather:
    why do the anglo-saxons
dream such elaborate dreams,
most of my dreams are
welcomes trivialities,
i honestly prefer
the sleep, minus
the elaborate world-craft
inverted delusion of:

no one really considers
dreams as equivalent
to hallucinations...
but they are a form of
hallucination...
so... in the safety of
the lab. of the unconscious:
you can dream...
but waking hour deviances
are... prohibited...

ever watched that film
hostel (Eli Roth, 2005)...
and then...
watch the video
by lindsay shepherd:
the ****** string
enthusiast of british
columbia?

i find the encompassing
"character"
by the latter,
to be the minion
entombed in the case
of the former...

well... we are living in
a world that's:
post-homosexuality is taboo:
who knows what
was smuggled in
and ascribed the vanguard
orthodoxy of
the abolished asylum...
schizophrenics?
what? those docile
bonkers wanderers?

  oh, i wouldn't be
too afraid of them...
they're the lethargic
gatekeepers of
cruises,
anticipating a sunset
on the glittering glitz
edge of an ****,
in a Beijing dumpling...

when the world goes
to the *******,
why even play O Fortuna?!
it is always a worthy
cause to celebrate:
the total ****-up
of it all...

               yes...
the anglo-saxons are plagued
by erotomania...
which subsequently
spurs them
to excessively dream;

i guess the architecture
of the phallus
needs to promote
an incubation
    of the form in a "more"
meaningful guise:
veiled by dream,
contorted by
     the sanctity of all
that is science, and all
that, unearthed from
the precursor stages
of pseudo-,
becomes the wisdom
of the mob...

             quasi:
sort-of,
but by the general
concensus: by god:
we will charge,
and stomp and...
make it our...
   pathetic...
in the old days
the eunuchs were walking
******...
the favorites of
the harem were impregnated...
the rest: m'eh...
in need of a *****,
since the king walrus
has no blue pill
back then...

but who would have
thought, that these eunuchs
became the castratos!

- never you mind...
the genre of horror
reiterates...
what i have just seen.