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In murky pleasure, fingers rest.
Cradling a cigarette – hand rolled,
Wrinkled raw.
Smouldering.
Pressed between lip, and the grimace of youth
As gentle licks of grey
Obscure his vision’s corner,
Flickering.
As new born temporary pleasure,
Living short its life
To the car horn muse.
Soon finds itself in a sunken pit
Face down,
Ground in between battlements.
On nicotine fuelled days
Where dull, heavy musk hangs malignant.
He sits.
And – raising a cup of crude
To toast the capital bullshit passing
Peering over near pressed vessel,
Straining through a blur of steam.
