"Poetry and hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. All you can do is go where they can find you" – A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh
Roll me another, roll on roll on.
Kiss a filter between your lips,
cradle it gently in plush fleshy pillows
wombed in nicotine breath and moistened by your muffled speech.
Wrap tobacco in its starched duvet,
like a spider cocooning an angry prey.
Large careless fingers gently wrestle – a little shake, a little jostle.
to tame this mass of mahogany curls.
Caress it sweetly into bed,
A foreplay of fingering before you put in the head.
A sigh sucks in the caramel ash,
but shes bitter and twisted and gone in a flash.