Cigarette Junked Breath

Black haired demon
cigarette junked breath
your plum red wine sloshed
the bed
along with yesterday’s coffee

Honey eyed
I cannot fully understand
nor will

the dogged
of you
know what

It’s fleeting
but it clots
cherry chromatic
on your septum ring

I wish I could
lay in the grooves of
your tattoo

or be the pavement
that graciously receives
your cigarette spiked spit

Jet Punk Match

We met in the library,                        
on the bottom floor,
both of us listening
to screamo– a jet punk match.

Your Stan Smiths
were always so dirty.
Cigarette bound,
you sport them to the store.

Pack of Luckies– red,
and a pack of blue Spirits–
for me.

You said you met Mac DeMarco
outside Higher Ground.
Gifted you his set list,
signed and placed among
your special things.

Your mom’s prayer card
tucked in front of it.
You were always upset
that I never asked.
I didn’t know how to open up.
You hated that I never walked
you home.

Yet you still came over.

You always wanted
to be choked.
I could never tell
how far to go.
I could never tell
just how traumatized
you are.
I could never tell
you the obvious.

Yet you still came over.

That distanced summer
ruined the jet punk match.
Burnt out of codependence
in a smoldering fit.

Yet you still came over.
Bad Habits
She’s pregnant while he’s out on tour.
Tryna kick a heroin habit
but just couldn’t quit and was found dead on the floor.
He died three times to end the havoc.

He was saved by Naloxone the first time.
Therapy didn’t work for him, another drink
or two can quell that fear or redesign
with vomit the kitchen floor and sink.

Later he went down to Mexico
for a surf punk tour with Wavves.
Hid by the border, a box of acid and blow–
no chance to get sober, just drugged out days.

Every day would start with a cup of vodka,
two years later, he just smokes marijuana. 
Stolen cigarettes
of mine in your coat pocket–
I love you, you fiend.
Death has come for you,
goth babe. The reaper is here
and he holds a lamb.
My buck shot shorty,
hoopty riding– my sweet stuff,
be careful for me.
Skatin' down main street,
cheap beer sippin', that loud weed
smokin'– on the run.
Back to Top