Cigarettes

The peculiarity of your gliding lip

is nauseating. The rescinding line of mutation,

which undyingly warps your weary ship

of a face, is sailing away from your circulation.

~

My blood is ripe for the taking.

My red plump lips beautiful for the breaking.

I have aged, I rot in Capri,

begotten bones doth stop me-

Hah!

~

A petty crude prude:

You are the master of crafting cues,

to play thy game, a knighting stay,

and through the moonlight grave,

You seek refuge in my platinum ashtray.

Oh Lord! Oh Saviour! Please stay.

~

Your absolutism creeds the way,

to your aristocratic fascism.

You smoulder your socialist slaves,

reducing them to their acute tobacco stains.

~

My specimen transfuses,

and my bones detach.

My silky white hair bruises,

and my cornea bleeds wrath.

~

I light the crucified cigarette

with the hands you Gave me.

And I burn my soul

with the mind you Gave me.

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