abused aromas
fuse the dwelling
throats slacken and tighten
good cooking can make a home
a rooted clut of tallow

home
         sweaty home
ignite another cigarette
scrape a fingernail on the sofa
a white grippy trail
scrunch your toes in the deep greasy carpet
and salivate on the wender of smoke
from the cooking of the roast

I'm feeling like a clut,
as you're putting all these colors through my veins,
and I'm ever-so tangled in the faux thought that it could possibly flourish
into something so occult that it would devise a new world of its own, entirely.

But what I didn't examine
was the false hope you stored in my abode of a heart,
by simply being your own and hankering my mind and flesh,
projecting love in an entirety of positive epilogue, sure to soon diminish...