Sulfur tastes sweet
In the mouths of the bitter spoken.
The socially accepted depressed
Mourn their dearly departed happiness.
Nicotine seeded minds
Tick back and forth,
A monotonous bass
Pushing the chambered self-rhythm.
A hooded guise and folded hands
Finger a once seemingly lost lighter.
The stage is set,
While the houselights fade to blue.
Inner monologues burst to the outside.
Eye's focus on a solitary figure,
A diamond lost among the shuffle.
Tonight's show is about to begin:
I like this ancient notepad,
My pen marks like tree rings.
Count them up to verify its age.
Coffee stained circles,
Scribble themselves every which way
Reminding me that
Somehow it is 2am again.
That last hint of Skyy
Poises itself at the tip of my mouth.
I linger it there
Trace my teeth.
Remembering this night's latest change of scenery.
Act II has yet to begin.
My speculations veer between verse and prose
While my eyes somewhat focus
On Nick at Nite TV.
Searching for that last cigarette
What a play to be seen.
I venture to the dark side of the moon
And back.
It's cliché, but that's the only place
Worth going to at this hour.
Speak to me, breathe.
My conscience motions for an intermission.
My tongue becomes the dagger
Which penetrates this silence.
The fragmented images
Surf through the tangled frequencies.
Creatures blend to shadows
While the bullets ring like wind chimes
And the sirens sing as sirens do.
The metal-faced children,
Full of holes and false beginnings
Are lost amidst the choir of cell phones
And chit-chatterings.
Technologically advanced squirrels,
Scampering over the crippled pavement
Hypnotized by neon signs.
Read: APPLAUSE APPLAUSE
Raindrops clapping against exposed, grey skin
The window pane has transformed
Into my new flat screen TV.
Here I sit,
Fingering the twirling smoke,
Composing symphonies of
The exhaled ghosts and demons
Of long past performances.
The walls mumble
Their intoxicated laughter.
The self-loathing artists
Bicker between their new dramatic theories,
And guitar strings echo back my passing thoughts.
Perfumed sex
Billows through the hallway,
A clouded haze interrupting the last few hours
Of intimacy between me and my nicotine.
The settling clinks of ice cubes
Signal the final cue.
The tinge of weed,
Fused with the stench of vanilla incense;
A cone burning away
The final ticks before dawn.
Life begins at 3am,
But I have missed it once again.
Sitting in secluded anticipation,
Of the moon's
Final curtain call.