The Cigarette Poems

A collection of stream-of-conciousness poetry written within the time frame of a single American Spirit

[the-cigarette-poems]

Cigarette Poem #25

We speak in #hashtags,

I speak in parables,

You speak all the words I never want to hear.

I zone out.

Transition my thoughts to #hashtags.

Every bit of information collectively at once.

She speaks in timeframes.

Ticks of the clock separated by light years.

I travel the distance to gather every word.

The universe grows old with me,

But you never seem to age.

I count a thousand suns in orbit when you’re nearby,

But the world is pitch black when you’re gone again.

I fake your presence with LED sunlight,

Surrounded with #hashtags.

You ignore the World Wide Web like it’s a mortal sin.

I grow old apart from you,

But humanity just seems to grow younger.

I feel alone between the rambling text

And thoughtless memes.

I feel politicized, polarized, racialized and forgotten.

Something needs to stand out

In a world of black and white.

I’d rather pull the chargers from the walls,

Delete every trace of digital identity,

And exist in only your electric light until we both run low,

But alas I’ve no options in this low attention world.

We die together or become another #.

[kris242]

Cigarette Poem #24

Dead feet limping leisurely in fretted determination.

Loose lips lying loving lust in late lament.

Lose yourself.

The springtime looks exactly the same

As every other manmade time of year.

The calendar changes positions,

Changes it’s phone number,

Gets a boob job,

Goes on a cleanse,

And returns to your wall as if unchanged

And under appreciated.

But you never notice,

And when you do,

It’s always a day too late.

Radiant rings of Ragnarok

Write my rituals in rusting reminiscence.

Lose myself in loose past selves.

Tell my love that love is a lie

And then tell the lie to never doubt itself,

Because she’s most certainly not alone.

I’m alive only when asked to be by the sun,

And still conscious somehow when she’s long dead.

To ask if I’ll wait for her again is a lot to ask,

But she’ll insist anyway

And I’ll abide.

Forever and ever and ever

And ever,

A man reminiscent of all men.

[the-cigarette-poems]

Cigarette Poem #23

Children foaming from the mouth,

Clutching rusty kitchen knives

At their sides

And lurking with maniacal dead eyes

In packs along the streets.

Another day in paradise

With the sun blotted out

By a growing black hole,

Turning the blue sky a dark lavender

And shifting our gravity to weightlessness

As I watch from my balcony,

Counting the cars that float by—

By brand,

And watch the smoke from my cigarette

Make weird angles in the air

In accordance to our imminent doom.

Swarms of mosquitoes consume the horizon

And soon the fires of hell

Come creeping through the manhole covers

And all will gradually turn to shit.

There's no more room in hell

And no one seems to be going to heaven,

So we'll simmer a bit

Until God decides what to finally do with us.

I just bought a fresh pack today.

I've got time cook.

[the-cigarette-poems]

Letters from an Anonymous Muse #6

Perhaps these dreams are windows. Close your eyes, find the universes with the other yous. This is your one taste of this one, and this one. The one with the girl, the one with the beech tree. The one with the diamonds. Perhaps they dream of you. --Anonymous

[the-cigarette-poems]

Cigarette Poem #22

What dreams are truly tangible?

None, I suppose.

Dreams are only products of the mind,

That and nothing more.

What light really shines

When darkness has coward away in fear?

Is the sun really there,

Or have I dreamed up that radiant phenomenon

Along with the rest

Of the strange creatures that surround me?

Are ghosts even real?

The ones I watch playing in the corner of my bedroom,

Trying my best to get some shuteye,

But the demented, hollow laughter keeps me--

Somewhat awake.

Life is a fallacy you go to bed to each night.

Solipsism of the keen and blind.

No words truly bend your mind,

Because your mind bends them into existence instead.

What is thought

But an odd stream of daily tales

Waking you into a lucid dream

You never seem to want to leave?

The suicidal and terminal

Seem to know just where they're going.

A new reality of new and strange thought patterns.

Perpetual deviation into nothingness

Aside from chaotically changing laws of physics.

It's all a dream,

But have no fear.

Eventually you'll awake to find

This dream will never end.

[the-cigarette-poems]

Cigarette Poem #21

Swing sets screech beneath the strange air

Of late winter's sudden abstinence.

Two enormous creatures,

Pretending they're children again,

Weigh down the rusted chains,

Swaying gently back and forth

As they pass joints and cigarettes between one another

And occasionally take swigs from their water bottle,

Generously filled with cabernet from a box.

Their voices lightly cut the gentle breeze,

Talking shit in polite babble,

Trying hard not to wake

The sleeping neighborhood nearby.

A beautiful romance beneath the jealous moon,

Hidden behind heavy clouds

That illuminate an evil crimson

From the quiet city below.

Bodies in a dark playground

With innocent playfulness of daylight children,

Just a bit of narcotics abuse

To set the whimsical tone.

This early evening rendezvous could last eternity

And probably will—

Or at least until the cigarettes burn out

And their asses start to ache from rubber seats

Built for asses half their size.

But for now this evening is gorgeous

And limitless.

Let it drone on until the darkness disappears

And these two delicate souls

Finally find their way home.

[the-cigarette-poems]

Cigarette Poem #20 (A Recipe)

To make a damn good tomato soup

You need damn good ingredients—

Nothing fancy and superior—

Organic or plastic,

If it tastes good then throw that fucker in there.

You need fragrances,

You need the complexity of melody within chaos.

Never be afraid to add,

Never hold back

When you strive to make something—

Not just good—

Damn good.

That's a title for the elite in fearlessness

And them alone.

A fine mire poix,

A bouquet of every herb I could steal

From the neighbor's garden,

And half of what I can find

Forgotten at the back of my fridge.

Don't hold back.

And then the tomatoes,

I like canned, personally.

Fuck your impression of "fresh is always better"

I seek flavor where it thrives the most,

Concentrated in its own gorgeous nectars,

Melding in a sealed vessel

For probably months, even years at a time.

Don't hold back.

Next comes the stock,

And quite frankly,

A stock simply isn't a stock

If you don't make it yourself

From scratch.

Don't hold back.

The secret ingredient is patience.

Lust is a dangerous creature,

Driving a furious impatient hunger

To finish it off now at virgin essence,

No time to grasp the fullness

Of every precious ingredient.

Just let that fucker cook.

Go read a book,

Make something useful of your life.

Call your parents,

They miss you.

Don't hold back.

And at its peak of complex perfection,

Blend that shit up

To the finest puree of absolute

Velvet.

Finish it off with a bit of cream,

And fucking enjoy.

Don't hold back.

This is your masterful creation,

Your every bit of love and boiling blood,

Lingering at the bottom

Of your half-eaten bowl,

Perhaps with a lovely gruyere grilled cheese on the side.

Don't hold back.

[the-cigarette-poems]

Sorry for the absence.

More poetry to come soon, my fellow dreamers...

[the-cigarette-poems]

Cigarette Poem #19 (The Holidays)

Shards of glass on turquoise holidays.

Blessings from the sea god,

Bòn ane and peaceful winters ahead.

I suck blood from every lover I'd ever known,

And keep relics at my bedside

To remember them by.

Christmas in paradise simply feels like home,

Humble shores that wash away emptiness,

And tread back in tidal waves of love.

I feel boundless at the end of my life,

As if the end isn't really there—

There's more to see at that distant aquamarine horizon.

But really, I'd rather stay here.

I'd rather imprison myself in sunlight and love

And stupidity.

This island is where my dreams all flourish

And come true one by one.

The turquoise holidays are such a tease,

For me to bounce around in my tormented head

Whilst I hide in my cave from Northern winters.

But the love will never leave me.

Love is something I've always hated,

But in the right light—

In the sunlight

It's something unavoidably magnificent.

[the-cigarette-poems]

Letters from an Anonymous Muse #5

The kind of tired that seeps into your bones like rust and bruises your feet. Seeing your face in the wilted windfall apples, bleeding near the roots of the tree. Caffeine can't touch you now. Only the cold and the wind and the rain. Only the rust.

 —Anonymous

[the-cigarette-poems]

Cigarette Poem #18

Well the lyrics melted into our retinas,

And the strobe lights pulsed into our ears,

And the air was vibrant with heavy bass and euphoria,

And you danced

And I danced,

And altogether this night fell into a dream.

Claustrophobia when the waves of life tell me so.

Need a bathroom break.

Need a submersion into peaceful waters for a change.

Strand through the herds,

Between the looming bouncers,

And make my path between the drunk, delirious,

And horny,

In hopes of finding still shores,

and when I do,

When for a moment there's peace,

You break the glass ocean

And send tidal waves toward me.

You existed and never went away.

And after somber moments alone,

Zipping up my fly in a rush with wet and soapy hands,

Trying to find the same figure of chaotic radiance

On the dance floor,

At the bar,

Nowhere to be seen.

Foolish moments away from my post,

With the sunlight in my face,

Only to show as memories,

Burn marks on my eyes.

[the-cigarette-poems]

Cigarette Poem #17

Just fly enough for a dirt town like this.

I'm so vintage it hurts,

I don't see the past so vastly as you do.

Embrace what the old folks had to give us.

Painfully unhip movements and stale sounds,

That we continuously drag along

Into our own tragic embarrassments.

We're simply the outdated of tomorrow,

And our children will laugh and sneer

At how fucking stupid we look,

But shamelessness is an undying entity,

Always getting better with age.

We're odd history textbooks of the unimaginable future.

Some schmucks will look at us one day with respect.

Isn't that such a laughable thought?

What will stupidity look like in a thousand years?

[the-cigarette-poems]

Letters from an Anonymous Muse #4

Last night up after a long break from Hal's tiny brass wand offered by the bouncer I thought hated me five years for one misheard word. And friend held my shoulder through weird orgasm bass, and later I dreamed he slept next to me; we held hands. -Anonymous

[the-cigarette-poems]

Cigarette Poem #16

I can’t watch the news,

I don't follow the conflicts,

Because really in the end

There's no side to truly root for.

Bias is only natural to the living and breathing

And thoughtless.

We don't deserve opinions

Because there will always be a counter.

It's no longer about race,

It’s something

Truly

Far more dangerous.

It's people looking for things to be angry about.

It's pointing fingers in every direction but our own.

I think we're all at fault here.

We're to blame simply because we exist

And produce thought

And stupid fucking ideas of freedom and unity.

These two things, freedom and unity,

Cannot truly exist harmoniously.

Not when every single idiot soul believes

That they themselves are actually free.

We'll never believe in the fantasy of equality.

Black and white the world shall forever remain,

And just me here

Innocently pretending I've been colorblind since birth.

[the-cigarette-poems]

Letters from an Anonymous Muse #3

Omens and secrets in the dark. Pasted over the stars, they hold a promise only you can read. Hands that speak your future when they trace the lines of your body. The curl of lips shaping all you know to be true. A spellbook kept safe in their heart. -Anonymous

[the-cigarette-poems]

Cigarette Poem #15

The distance—or somewhere far beyond it,

The low frequency peaceful darkness,

Out here at the furthest reaches of space.

We stare down the universe in its slow collapse,

Perched here on our seats at its edge.

The brilliant dance of dying stars and colliding planets,

It’s a romantic destruction within the symphony of progress.

It's all so much for our virgin eyes to take in,

But all too brilliant to look away.

We sit back and rest easy,

Knowing that after one single blink,

When our eyes burst open yet again,

All will be no more.

Quite an enchanting thought.

So as the bitter performance unveils,

Take a sip of cab sav with me.

The last vintage the world will ever see,

The most delicious year of all.

[the-cigarette-poems]

Cigarette Poem #14

True foreign policy,

An enactment of the riotous and gallant—

Or simply just throwing bombs

To shut their praying up.

Prayer.

Never has an act been so perverse,

So blasphemous.

To pray is to sin against another,

And no one likes a heretic.

So bomb them all

Because it's the Christian thing to do.

Cave dwellers stand no match

To our heat-seekers.

I don't watch the news channels.

They're the ones who seem to spread the calamity further.

If God exists he, she or it stands alone in our universe,

As we hail our hatred towards our altars,

Toward Mecca.

God is not the criminal in this tragedy.

Perhaps the God-fearers need another hint.

Perhaps our God is no better than their God.