I have to stop reading poetry.
The muses of poets take long drags on
Before puffing out more
Show stopping lines.
I am trying to quit.
It has been four days since I
Pushed my last yellowed filter into the ground
Let it stand next to the others like
A proudly rotten smile.
At the weekend I spent every penny I own and more
Pushing boot prints into mud
Shoulder blades swaying like dorsal fins to music I didn’t know
Dark pupils spilling into white noise
With smoke and emptying with words like
Frankly Dear, I don’t give a damn.
I liked me back there
All muse and smirks and
But tobacco is expensive
And nobody listens to a non-smoker.
Copyright © Gracie Bawden