Disclaimer: please ignore all bad-language, references to drinking and/or smoking, and any other such unfavorable content. I could/would edit it, but I'm seriously so tired right now. I really need REM sleep tonight, so here it is raw and real. It's all about being alive, bros. Go with the flow.
--I do not and never will smoke cigarettes. My mind was going a mile a minute, so I went with it, and this is what came out of it. Deal with it. The only true part of this is probably the thing about the socks (my guitar picks love them)...and the banana-seat, because, come on, those things were the bomb.
4/9/12
He makes me want to smoke clove cigarettes
[daintily], with one pinky sticking out,
like I'm drinking tea out of a cup and saucer
{and maybe I am.}
You can't drink a cappuccino
without something sweet,
and, oh man, do I crave that sweetness;
a potent last sip of chai (the final tart swallow)
when all the extract is at the bottom.
It reminds me of licorice wrapped in printer paper;
of chain-smoking words;
of the times when I was innocent and curious
and didn't know that even simply breathing could kill you.
Every second, we move closer to our eventual demise, they tell
me with gleeful [masochistic] eyes;
every minute, 108 people die.
Somehow, this fails to make me feel better.
I'm going stir-crazy
waiting for some light to appear.
Nothing romantic,
just enough to write by;
to exist by.
All I need is something that leaves a mark,
and nothing else;
by now, I'm used to messy chirography [misspelled because
where the fuck is my dictionary?] and use-
less line bre
aks that mean
absolutely nothing in the great scheme of things
(except that I can't see worth a damn
by flashlight…light?)
In the darkness,
I fumble for my guitar
and try to tune it by ear, though it matters not.
A [sharp] G string makes me remember the
feel of buttons pushing through holes
and the smell of laundry detergent.
Once, I washed all of our clothing together,
and now all my jeans pockets are the
color of his favorite socks
(rainbow, without polka dots.)
All my guitar picks hid when he left; buried
themselves deep in his socks, snuggly warm,
and I secretly hope that they impaled him.
I think I got addicted to the idea of
addiction, and now I have to spike my caffeine
with nicotine just to feel alive and jittery and dangerous.
Inhalations burn like acid and anecdotes;
tar bubbling, blooming in my lungs,
seeping up my esophagus as I cough and
hack up earl gray [laced with bourbon] into the shower.
At least I have an excuse now to forget
I can't drive;
to ponder
the purpose of a poem (if it has one)
out in the early morning haze, wearing only
a night gown and my skin;
to believe against all doubt that candles
are flickering in the walls, when it is just
my eyelids drooping [closed.]
A reason to be as ridiculous as possible,
because they already think I'm crazy or insane
(I never do anything the right way.)
He makes me want to tear my shirt
from my torso, and bare my collarbones to the harsh
light; grip them like I'm going along for a ride on his
handlebars again, like when we were twelve and having
a banana-seat meant you were king of the jungle-jim.
But it's all just a ruse -- a lie:
together, we've hit the iron railing and are jolting forward,
but it is only me, (un)balanced precariously
as his human shield, that crashes into the brick wall
and leaves a water mark on the concrete.
I want to chain smoke with him, out behind the east locker rooms
[warily], with one hand on my backbone
(the only thing structurally-sound I trust now),
but I'm not even sure what that means, and, really,
my alveoli are virgins; if they tasted tobacco
it would likely kill them right then and there.
He makes me want to run
full-tilt, flat-out: sprint,
so the air rushing in will be oh-so-much-more
precious than the air rushing out.
I want to smoke a damn cigarette
so I know what it feels like to taste fate
and fuck with death.
So I can lie [awake],
wondering why I only cry with the lights on;
why I only like him when I'm alone.
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