Cigarette Soliloquy

Smoke rises out of lungs on the tar­ma­ced pave­ments.
caught in the after­noon light.
Breaths of heat.
And tar thickened heart beats.
Sticky metal and con­crete streets.
Some­thing is drip­ping inside you,
every drop falls and an echo
drums itself inside your cells.
Soft skin, cells, joints, a jungle of limbs.
Your bac­terial body, your liv­ing skin
and blood soaked bones.
The organs’ walls are thin.

 

There are more holes in your body
than stars that you will never see.

 

Empty.
Museums. And build­ings and ancient
sis­ters who forever climb the foot­paths together.

 

Repeat everything that you do.
no one will hear you.
Even on sweaty after­noons -
the humid­ity in this coastal city
will trap your voice.
Cluster the pack­ets of noise.
Form­ing a thin film of
indus­tri­ally dam­aged sleet
which burns your tongue and ears and feet.

 

Stand over the bridge you have know
since you were three.
Watch the waste water run to the sea.
Thumb out the thoughts
until they’re numb
thumb out the thougths until
your rest­less need to feel is done.

 

- New­castle 2010

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