down to my last stick...

sunlight, spilling onto a half empty bed
waking me from my self-induced coma,
into a hot-light hangover morning
frumpled sheets, a misshaped pillow,
faint odors of perfume and musk
tell a torrid story of what vodka
won’t let me sanely remember
Lisa or Alice, one of these fit the blurried
past-life last night, not that it matters now—
rolling over, mother clock scolds me
in screaming LED: six or nine-thirty eight

groping half-blindly—
the cluttered bedside table, a crumple, a click:
with an exhale, another cigarette breakfast is served,
blowing life into another wasted day


I think a cigarette would best help
to describe how i feel,
I'd sit on my patio with my legs drawn
up under me, I'd lean against something
in the grey damp of november
and I'd smoke and let tears fall
as i watch the air
for invisible particles.
paricles of smoke, city grime and of me.
watch the sky for a bomb
smoke
draw and let the tears itch and dry
on my cheeks
that would be the end of detached me,
and I'd burn it and inhale,
how appropriate,
and the taste would stay with me,
my hands my hair, acrid.

*deviant*