08-10-2013, 10:36 PM
'The end of a cigarette is my daughter’
We have walked so far, you and
I, through the misted density of forgetful towns
Which wash our feet like Christ with perfume.
We smell of sourness and untouched hopes which linger
At the back of refrigerators or between the cushions
Of our old sofa; they wait for us to find them and pick them out
And once again cherish our longings, holding them
To our breasts like a feeding child. Feeding them on our blood
And the disappointed humours which congeal on cold windowpanes.
This breath in me is you. My lungs are full of your voice and
Whispers and I can barely breathe because you are
My breath. I pull you to my lips – — – take a drag, and you are
Both outside and in. This end, this conclusion, of a wet, bitter
Cigarette is my daughter. This end – — – this end.
This end is me.
We have walked so far, you and
I, through the misted density of forgetful towns
Which wash our feet like Christ with perfume.
We smell of sourness and untouched hopes which linger
At the back of refrigerators or between the cushions
Of our old sofa; they wait for us to find them and pick them out
And once again cherish our longings, holding them
To our breasts like a feeding child. Feeding them on our blood
And the disappointed humours which congeal on cold windowpanes.
This breath in me is you. My lungs are full of your voice and
Whispers and I can barely breathe because you are
My breath. I pull you to my lips – — – take a drag, and you are
Both outside and in. This end, this conclusion, of a wet, bitter
Cigarette is my daughter. This end – — – this end.
This end is me.