——–

A carton of Marlboro Red 100s. A bottle of 12 year old single malt. The portentous delight of a finely rolled spliff. My night is only made better by the promise of some Chinese food on the horizon. A few days of rest after having pushed through a large chunk of work are well deserved.

——–

——–

Watch out for the strange little man that resembles Leoncavallo

 

Like an alien life-form

homesick

starved by a besieging world

gasping for a measured sentiment

tangled in the air

muddled as the wrong gin

grown pallid

like a dying hero

in a picture.

Her lips

a smokestack

meant to fade

impending

an ascension

little syllables woven together

like a premonition

speaking in subtitles

like an old Italian film

skipping over the erudition

a bad transition

and the intricacy

and all notable meaning

like a worn bible in a flea bag motel next to a bottle of Old Granddad

a joke with blood on the mattress

an occult acculturation

a broken cigar to a broken man

lachrymose and barely there

I want to find her intimacy

because she remains steadfast

obstinate, with her little balled fists at her hips

she looks at me

precious and procellous

dreaming and perilous

and I swim no longer

instead I drown in the mercy of the situation

misnamed

————