jonnie

Cigarettes, My Dear Poet, Could Lull Us Higher



I just screamed I didnt breathe
And now you are jacking me
In your American car
How reluctant.
Cigarettes, my dear poet, could lull us higher.
Yet around the moon I am weeping
Deadly and omnipresent dogs are festering in it,
They are passionate,
But they are not fresh for eating.
Cigarettes, my dear poet, could lull us higher
Than this dream in which we float,
Having shattered our sorrow in way lay,
Now the memory, you spoon,
Is sharp. I do not breathe.
There is sky below the knife,
There is pulp, and barnacles
Like kittens fornicating.
This slack jawed moon, I am whispering fury
Strike it, for lust is loathing and penguins are
Snorting my blow, yet I am no nearer
Innocence than fury. I am more vague to you
Than Antarctica and I am in a more absurd meeting
Than I intended.