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Cigarette
“O fortuna”, the troubadors cried.
The clothes on the counter were folded impeccably.
The bills were stacked in their piles of monetary scrabble.
The Moon is waxing and waning
weaving in our fates.
Pulling on the tides and the
water in our brains until we howl in eccentricity,
ecstasy and rage.
The autumn is coming, whispers the wind
In its hot breath of cigarette mist and cloudy
Skies and rubber burning out on bleached out cement, to be ozonized and inhaled
Along with arsenic.
All this cancer and war, and somehow
The People are spinning again for love.
Good read
I think this poem is pretty good. Rare.
"There is no good writing, only good editing."