The Girl Who Smokes by the Bay Window

The girl who smokes by the bay window.
Excellent knee caps disturb dead clouds,
Black birds fly clean through her head.
“How’d I do now?” I ask.
She smiles, little button teeth through smoke.
“You’re a’ight Nigerian man, just a’ight.”
“I told you I found a cure.”
A jungle lay around her little Lilith ankles.
And between her plush lush,
A rainforest stirs in sleep,
The brutes behave,
The air is powder.
Absent any smaller joys,
Absent any international wars,
Absent any soapbox evangelists,
And union men making fine, great threats,
I hunt down my knickers under the bed,
Some yellow-eyed brute of a cat jumps and I run for the door,
Flaccid member in one hand,
Knickers in another.
She smiles, coughs through smoke.
Some of us need this,
Loaded guns,
Poisoned vials,
Wet cigarettes,
Flying cats,
And a naked girl who smokes by the bay window.
Unlike you,
I don’t need much to believe.
This is it, this is it.
There is some mileage left on my soul,
Nothing left for the wife singing across the Atlantic.

Image by: theglossiernerd.tumblr.com

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