This Is A Three Cigarette Poem

This is a three cigarette poem.

You know the kind,

us fire breathing women tell,

boiling and bubbling

over some disregard

paid in spades to

our hearts.

This is a three cigarette poem.

This one I’ll tell as

my supply of cyanide

dwindles and peters out

smoke wafting above

the tears blocked

chocked

and solid inside.

This is a three cigarette poem.

This is where I

learn that even with no

expectations

and no overt deceit

losing still

hurts like a motherfucker.

Ths is a three cigarette poem.

I have perfected my flick,

the placing of my middle

finger,

my fuck you finger

against the smouldering

butt

and captapulting it

yards away

in a graceful arc

resembling my own disregard.

Dreams never lie

Hopes never die

and my eye

is ever looking forward.

This is a three cigarette poem.

My determined bitch

song

My never let a man

bring me down

My sweet honey bitch

tattoo

My introduction

to the new…

life

This is a three cigarette poem.

You are not every man

I am not every woman

I believe what you believe

tattoed on your

stomach:

Trust no-one.

This is a three cigarette poem.

Drowning in the morass of mediocrity

and the excuses of roads smooth

and easy

the ones so easily controlled

and the effort you

cannot make

combined with

the best of me you take

and the bullshit I won’t.

This is a three cigarette poem.

And now I am down to one

rattling in this box

as I contemplate

all the locks

and all the doors

in the all hallways

I’ve taken

and the small way

we live.

Now I am down to one.

This was a three cigarette poem

And now I’m fucking done.

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