( Sleeping beauty has called off negotiations. )
It’s Not So Personal, It’s Not Quite So Literal
Reblogged from j-r-morgan
I picked up the habit
of smoking cigarettes again.
Not just any kind of cigarettes,
But the Marlboro 100s kind.
[cause I feel fancy “like that”]
as I walk out
having paid for the pack
with nickles and dimes.
I feel almost French,
But poor, but still-
nearly bare and naked,
almost like natural homeostasis.
To me,
smoking a cigarette is almost like
participating within this thing
I discern as the “mating matrix”,
except each time I purse my lips
against a cig
I’m only fucking myself
and its cool But, really only
half the potential fun available-
But since being a “sex addict”,
excuse me-
Love Making Obesser,
[as I prefer to acknowledge it]
is no good for anyone’s
genitals or overall health,
I’ve opted,
when not engaged in
the act of love making,
to relinquish myself to the feign and
inevitable craving of wanting to fuck myself,
in some form or fashion.
I blame it on my damned passions,
[there’s just too much in me].
Which is why
I picked up the habit
of smoking cigarettes again.
Sometimes I smoke just to hold the mere excuse
to escape outside with you
to enjoy the snow,
the wind and its blow,
the springs and its trees
the sail and its birds in show,
even if I am just burning
my lungs to enter
into this Garden-
it’s a sacrifice I’m
willing to bear
if only to get you
to escape outside
with me.
If only for five minutes
While I burn my lungs
And you melt under this forgiving sun.
From someone,
To anyone.
