I have a blowhole.
You know the feeling
when thoughts resemble
puffs of Cuban cigar smoke?
I feel like that.
I feel like diving backwards
into the Atlantic’s
lusty undertow
like an acrobat committed
his dying day
to foraging the earth’s
Paleolithic plates supported
by the arthritic hips
of eighteen kangaroos.
With circumspect curiosity
I could be trawling imagination.
Take my hand.
Billy wore a helmet.
Good thing since the Guardia Seville
hadn’t yet chosen
the perfect caliber
while eyeing up romas,
aunts, and maiden cousins
feigning influence
over Iraqi hairdressers.
₳ € ₱ ₦ ₮ (silly bastards)
Anywhere you please
light organic cigarettes,
Westminster Blend
or robust Jesture,
and for your ribbed pleasure
deposit
six quarters
of deepest melancholy
into the nearest slot
guaranteed
to slake your
violent thirst.
Source