Flavour

It’s funny how things work out
She offered as her lips delicately traced
The long edge of the thin paper
And soft fingers rolled it expertly into a small stick

Chapped lips and yellowed teeth
Teasing, tasting the words more than the nicotine
Watchful eyes wandering across my care – etched
Face, faltering as I stuttered and stammered what

Little I could, blinking blindly into the sunrise with my
Legs dangling limply over the seawall
Struggling to process
She noticed the blink

It’s kinda bright here, dontcha think
Should we walk or stay sat here
Politeness, a kindness
Sincere, no veneer
But it mattered not

Who is it, what is it
There’s no-one, it’s nothing
But that’s kinda the point
We both knew there was a shelf life
To love life, an expiry to the perspiring
The sweat drenched wild nights

When they’ve come and gone
And seen their best days fade
Frankly, it’s, well not a drag
She took a drag of the fag
Breathed in, drew down
But time waits for no-one
Not us

And what have we got
Some laughter, some banter
And that’s just our lot
It’s not you or me
It’s us
This
Right here
Just doesn’t do either of us any favours
When neither is each other’s
Flavour of the month

She turned to me
With eyes black as jet
Soft lips formed a final word
Cigarette?

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Sent, I Meant

Sentiment; when she was sent you were meant
To seize it
For the gift it was
Heaven sent or by chance and luck

Five letters, a French letter or a red letter
They come once in a lifetime or don’t come at all
And you’re left with the sticky
Sickly sweet stench on your fingers

Hell yeah; part three
Part free
Part of me dies
Every time she slips through my clumsy grasp
Believe in yourself
In something, in nothing
And you’re here again
Forlorn, four long years

It’s formulaic
Lay her form down on the bed
Between the hope and the
Havoc and all the things you’ve done

So I went out, pulled out a piece of parchment
Pieced together, burnt out by her
Fire and a candle only flickers this bright
For a brief few seconds son

The gown still smells the same
Stays the same, sat in the same
Spot, same place on the bedroom floor where
She left it

And I forgot to thank her

Emotion

I write my best poetry, my best stories, when i’m moved. In fact, the only time that i write is when i’m emotionally moved. It’s hard to find motivation to write, to express jubiliation or despair when i’m not actively experiencing it. I often find that caffeine, alcohol and nicotine help to “inspire” me artificially.
   Sometimes I think about these peaks and troughs of spirit and i wonder; is it worth it? If i could be cold, emotionless, level and cool throughout life, would i prefer that? Are the dizzying highs of human emotion worth paying for with the gut wrenching lows of misery? Would i take the Soma or is it, to paraphrase In Flames, better to “feel like shit, but at least…feel something”?

I don’t know what relevance this has to anything. Just musing i guess.