"dunhill" poems
I got no more ***** on my arms, vaginal schemes and gospel psalms. Very private skinny tribes, lit up with oversized black lights. In the very end, everybody walks this way, they all move like idioms, they all wanna be lit up like stars. Some could be prevalent like cascading dreams, nauseous just like mesquite BBQ baby-back wings.
Fly away little bird, fly away. But don't try to leave
Or you won't get paid.
I know very well, just what kinda caption your capsaicin
Can be, lit up like honey blunts, golden stars on top of your christmas tree. Strawberry Swisher Sweets, Blueberry Dunhill flavors, poke your hand through the fence, make friendly on your neighbors. If you like Kimmel Live, Conan at Midnight too, recipes for the zombies, SS ****** Youth. Blow-up and be a party. Get off work and drink your check. Get down, get off- I'll show you. Just how Martin pays the rent.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:21 AM UTC
Reaching back,
Back to that fork
In the road
Where irreversible consequence
Hid like angina
In a dunhill bubble
And you veered left,
Smitten by the decadence of mint
And mythical circles
Blown with liberal disdain
From a camel's ****
You followed the green line
Rippling like waves
Of vintage wine
Through gomorrah
Caution blown
As a midsummers gale
Between tarred lips,
Your ship sailed
The straits of cool
From bogart to newport
If dean only knew
Nat the king
Could still be singing
Nature boy on the square,
Live
He might have spurned his spyder
And lucky strikes
For a slice of life
Beyond 24
And you might have
Veered right
At that fork in the road,
Swapping scarred consequence,
Tarred lips,
And angina
For the whole pie
~ P
(#FromTheCamelsButt)
12/24/2014
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 10:04 PM UTC
i have always been farther
away than the last moment
spoken between + the label,
yet there is nowhere beyond
my mind that i know how to
reach. it was a sadistic run-of
-the-mill that allowed me to
bring light upon a beam of
light shadowed in a corner
and hiding in hyperspace,
speedier than a tachyon yet
delicious in a red-wine finish..
i skip labor as proof that i am
free but who in the *actual ****
is your leader?
there are moments i can supine
from the words you write in direct
reference to the life i've lived since
September.. but the proof is that i
have streaks of euphoria and clam
ouring happiness amidst a dull ball
-park surrounded by the Lost and the
****** a new list of habits would
have to include my rampant affair with
alcoholism, my flirting with a boardwalk
death-wish in the form of Dunhill cigarettes
**** you, Sigmund Freud) (*all because a
friend discovered Dunhill's to be the favourite
choice of Hunter S. Thompson*) and a lack of
physical exercise beyond the legs which leaves
me brain-atrophy construction-zoned & & &
deadinthewater
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 4:11 PM UTC
Each crest-wave melts forward unto a cyclic downward unto a mix-exchange at the bank of the channel, fluid between the Georgia Strait and the passive Pacific, all the way from probably-Australia. The overcast is claustrophobic, sort of-- Victoria feels like a small wet cottage in a populated happy brain-cell, so when the clouds roll in all you notice are the creases on the faces that look as they grunt and push their eyes half-closed, exhaling a nicotine cloud in pensive thought toward a day job. Dunhill cigarettes always give off the faint odour of soy sauce, and the blue rot of the Johnson Street Bridge ticks away, caught in a state of eternal construction. In the aisle of an apartment somewhere else inside the city, one can smell the delicate remains of Indian food, curried and waiting for years ago to come again. The narrative has never been more than sheer observation, not to watch what comes and goes, but what flows across the fractal void of every-angle. There are dots on the rocks, and legs on the waves.. butts in the moss, and hours in the days. If 'forgotten' is the outcome of my every effective attempt, it will change nothing up those sleeves of mine. And nothing left exempt.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 4:52 PM UTC
I do not know where my cigarette goes when it's ashes are flicked to the wind-
I like to imagine them landing like magic, each part to become human again..
My choice to devour the ashes that scour
My lungs just as much as the earth..
is as if from my breath I am exhaling death, and click 'PLAY!!'
as a new life begins.
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 10:46 PM UTC
A dark brown shaved herb
Burns so slowly from the bowl
The smoke rises from
As does my thoughts follow it
I wonder why it is so
Mar 20, 2021
Mar 20, 2021 at 10:45 AM UTC
Maybe what turned me on was the air refreshner that hung in his car
Hoping his mom would not smell the traces
Of obvious dunhill Reds and jack Daniels.
Or The way he performed darkness on my skin
As thick as black ink That no jar could keep.
How about the hunger in his mouth,
That burning curiosity to push the edge of decency
And go for gold.
Or Perhaps it' was the gospel truth that what we were doing that night
Could be followed by disastrous consequences
And what was completely forbidden by our different religion
After all
he is Malay .
He had eyes concealed by lashes that
Were like curtains
Hoping to hide his intentions .
His life is what you would call
A cerekarama.
Forbidden love between two rebels
Trying to break through the norms of societies standards.
Always drunk on the idea of love,
'Syaitan lives in my pants '
He would say to make an excuse for touching me and grinning
Hoping I'd be a sucker.
Oh and did I mention he was Malay?
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 3:16 PM UTC
Broken Sentiments
Returning from work last night, like all days
To learn that I’m just a piece of work, unlike all days
Brushed me off as I tried working things out
Tried to fill you up with my day and its happenings
Told me your day was just beginning, and mine over
Should’ve known you meant you and I were over
All through our time, didn’t you enjoy listening to my days’ stories?
Arrogantly brushed my shoulder away as I tried to hug
Told me to wrap away, you were going out tonight
Happy I was going to have a good time out, with you
Told me you were leaving me behind, I wasn’t worth you
All through our time, didn’t you take pride in holding my hand into the club?
Couldn’t understand any of it
All I was made to understand was the long easy red dress you were in
The red lipstick that added the flavor, the golden necklace too
The Dunhill Red cologne you had washed and swam in
With certainty, you and I both know that’s no fools’ gear
These were your all time favourites all times when you felt like it
With certainty, we both know you’re not gonna be dancing to no fools’ lullaby
Only difference now, I won’t be there to hold your hand and ask to dance
And oh I envy the one who’ll wrap your bee’s waist with his arms as you dance
For your game tonight is the bee’s knees
All through our time, didn’t you make me a proud man dancing with me?
O, so I stay behind, in the company of my teary wall clock
While my body in solitude, my soul in the company of giants
Kenny G’s all time great jazz, Lionel Richie’s soulful classics in the CD player
Although perfect, they could never leave Luther Vandross’ slows out of the party
They all play my heart, in turns, on repeat, repeatedly
Repeatedly, I keep casting my teary eye over the wall clock
Time, for a perishing heart seems to move very slowly
Although quickly, I realize it’s now time for the slow jams wherever you are
A thought I can’t ****** but that keeps murdering me
Is the storm you’re dancing right now, that used to ****** me
All through our time, didn’t this dance always belong to me?
Time stands still, in the still of the night
I look at the pieces of all the things you’ve broken in me and around
These pieces are so out of shape
I can’t piece them together to solve even one of our puzzles
I realize some we’ve even filed away their natural rugged edges to smooth surfaces
All we thought we were trying to do is run a smooth life
But these smooth edges glide over each other as I try to piece them together
We no longer have a perfect picture together
What breaks the soul of a man in solitude is that you aren’t even here
To work this puzzle together, paint a new piece together
Just you and I
You’re dancing a storm, away from home
And I’m here, home, crying a storm
You and I apart
We always have been
You and I
Now no more
Only with broken sentiments
Mongi C. Nkabindze
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 5:29 AM UTC
she inhaled happiness like a dunhill cigarette,
smoke lingering on her cherry-red lips,
eyes vibrant of her last lover's kiss.
but she could not fathom mundane affects
of short-tempered love, masked as the ordinary desire of men.
no one asked from where her dull smile and the fine, white lines on her arms originated from,
nor did anyone cared enough about the numerous bruises,
ironically aligned like
a blossoming sunset between her thighs.
she was just the briefly glowing ember
in one's snow cold and harsh december.
© fey (23/08/20)
Aug 23, 2020
Aug 23, 2020 at 8:49 AM UTC