Sunday, June 28, 2009

Coffee, Ciggarettes and Whores

Red-tinted smiles,
Shot eerily over leather-bound love,
Can you breathe?

You feel the lollipop lust eminating,
So sweetly fraudulent from her candy lips,
Mezmerizing you into stupidity like the thought of your morning coffee,
So cloudy with it's addicting liquid reverie,

And tempting you now with her malicious adoration,
Strung so brightly above you like the array of holiday lights at Christmas,
You have become a junkie,
Lost in the motel-room of her embrace,
Empty-eyed like the other Washington Street whores,

You just need one more fix, right?
One more sugared-up, neon injection,
One more toxic acid rush flowing warmly through your brittle veins?

"Does she make you feel alive still?"
I ask you over coffee at midnight,
The little white clouds still astounding you,
But you ignore my plea for healthy sanity to bleed into your broken down mind,

You're lurking in love's graveyard, buried inside the coffin of her love,
Beneath the weight of her will,
She has broken you completely I fear,
Tumbling down, spiraling as quickly as a ciggarette burns,

You're all too happy to be blissfully lost,

As we chatter endlessly into the morning,
The feathery lightness of her fingertips seduces your mind,
So locked within the prison of your own heart,

I try in vain to rip the indigo sash from your throat,
Constricting your heartbeat to nothing,
I am too late...
She has captured you again from me,
One final time to my violent dismay,


  1. Great one. You are a good poet. It is leaving me with images of smoke hazes and going to coffee shops.

    Keep up the good work.