My mother burned us all…smoke
rose from the ashes that clinged
to our beds, to the tables and chairs.
No one knew of screams that
echoed through the night, of the
sleepless nights from lying in
wait for what may come.
Nothing stoked the flames
we burned like unsmoked cigarettes
slowly our flames died out.
My father sat in silence
Ignoring blood soaked pillows,
ignoring us, and how we were
expressing invisible scars through
silence and self harm ignoring his
own house engulfed in flames.
three hundred thousand unsmoked fags
since i took the plunge and stopped
i did it cold turkey mates, suffered as
my nicci levels plunged and dropped.
no nicci patches,
no nicci chewing gum,
no electric cigs,
good enough for some,
no therapies to help,
they just didn’t exist,
all those placebos
i so sadly missed.
so i went cold turkey mates
mainly through short cash
so why do i still dream of
lighting up, crashing the ash.
i dream i still smoke,
enjoy every single one
memories flooding back
from years long gone.
every single pilsner
accompanied by a ***
nothing quite like a grosse
and a long deep drag.
its sad really;
just a sick joke,
because in real life i just can’t
stand the smell of ciggie smoke.
i did it cold turkey mates, suffered
as my nicci levels plunged and dropped
three hundred thousand unsmoked fags
since i took the plunge and stopped
what planet could this be for boys of ten
and then one hundred
movement felt,
looking at the hardened grain
of hands caressed
with fingers pressed against themselves
absorbing stillness’ breath
suspended in each air a pair
of warm yet liquid-frozen thoughts
captured
then released with care
youthful power to devour light
whose distance now
becomes serene
a slow suspended scene
in the moment captured
stretched like bubble gum or taffy
compressed
into the thinness of a dime
time
rolled between the fingers
ridged and perfect soft
wrapped
as cigarettes unsmoked,
moving miniature rolling pins
of skin like bread
gathered sweet
and then,
a fence to sit upon, a wall to scale
grains of surfaced roughness
where the smooth compare
the toughness of their skin
to skin a shin
upon a polished youth
with broken glass of bottles blowing
tins and rolls all gathered in
their stripes and plaids
and paisleys worn -
attempts to humanize
collateralized machine
we all want out, sometimes,
we all want in.
I woke in the rain
On a drizzle-day
And found,
I could care again.
I believed that we could find a way
Back out of the dragon’s den.
“O, it’s hard!” I thought
As the tears ran down
In the endless mist of rain
To write neatly without
Besmearing the book
And I found I could care again.
There’s a little off-end
Of a wet cigarette
That you put out against
A wet rock,
And I hope that you’ll leave it,
That end,
Unsmoked
And opt up, instead
For a piece of bread
That we’ll break with the wine
In the cup.
Throw Them Away
By David J Walker
How often I saw him
Sitting,
Smoking
Drinking coffee
Early in the morning
Thinking
Worrying
Perhaps praying?
I cannot say
He would extract an
unfiltered Camel from a
half empty pack ,
the second left over from
each yesterday
Pinched between his lips
He would strike a match
the way he had done it
since he was 10
The sulfur and thin paper
And dried tobacco
Each with its own
distinct aroma
Fill the air with an innocent
Poison
A sophisticated flare
Of maturity
Mixed with percolating
black coffee
I wondered why
He rose so early
Every day
Just to sit in the dark
At the kitchen table
The glow of his lit
Cigarette
The only light
Commanding the complete quiet
Unnatural to house with kids
The “Late in life”
Would come too soon
At the invitation of emphysema
Among the things gathered
To give back to the family
Was a half pack of
Unsmoked cigarettes
Throw them away
I said
I have a carapace shiny and black,
And when I visit I do more than snack!
I scuttle about in the dead of night,
Never once do I need to use a light.
If I am seen people get a big fright,
Why do they all have to get so uptight?
I am always under constant attack!
They chase me about and give me a whack,
Though peppered like a plane flying through flack!
Away I must dash to the nearest crack.
These people I seem to overexcite,
Yet I am so small and always contrite.
My PR stinks you can say what you might,
Definitely not a mother’s delight!
But when I am safe in my own little shack,
Playing with a piece of unsmoked tobac .
To this accord I will hang up a plaque,
You wont catch me I’m as sharp as a tack.
You need not worry about the invite,
I’ll be the last at your party tonight.
O Grunge Princess, I know today your love
brims over, idle, for the rebel boy
like weed you keep, unsmoked, sitting among
your secrets in a box; the smells they cloy
and force you into longing. Come what may,
Space Mermaid, your boy is just a dream.
He's not your happiness, nor is the way
he makes you feel--this illusion may seem
absolute, but first loves often do.
I know I cannot sway you with my words;
just remember: moments fizzle out, but you
will yet remain, just like your box of herbs.
When you learn to walk alone in power
your enigmatic buds begin to flower
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