The Girl Who Smokes by the Bay Window

The girl who smokes by the bay window.
Excellent kneecaps disturb dead clouds,
Black birds fly clean through her head.
“How’d I do now?” I demand.
She smiles. Little button teeth through puerile smoke,
She’s going to give all this Brooklyn some cancer,
“You’re a’ight Mr. Nigerian Man, just a’ight.”
“I told you I found a cure.” I brag.
She shakes her head, thumbing a bug in the window.
A jungle lay around her little Lilith ankles.
And between her plush wet lush,
A rainforest stirs in sleep,
The brutes behave,
The air is powder,
The pong is she and I.
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 cackles, coughs through smoke,
Between my feet, her carpet, Persian, lick up the splotch of my seed,
There goes a generation of scallywags,
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.
What is ego?
Who is man?
This is it, this is it.
There is some mileage left on my soul,
But nothing left for the wife singing across the Atlantic.

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