I want a cigarette to dangle
from the corner of my mouth,
a cone of ash forming on its end
as I work on something that
requires intensity and passion
so all-consuming that I don’t notice
the mountain in the ashtray
or even that I’m lighting a new one
with the dying embers of the old.

Yes, I want a rush of nicotine
covered in ammonia and tar to
snake through my system
give me a boost
focus my energy
make me feel alive
even if it means I’ll die sooner.

Writers should smoke as they
hunch over yellow legal pads in
drafty efficiency apartments
where the rent’s overdue and
the dishes are never done and
the smell of burnt tobacco
covers for the fact that the
artist is so busy with the work
he’s forgotten to shower.

When the pack’s empty and
the last word’s been written,
I want to drink cheap scotch until the
realities of my circumstances
die of cirrhosis and I pass out
on the stained mattress next to
a woman who barely knows me
but who loves my work more
than she hates my guts and who
doesn’t mind fucking when
the fighting’s all done.

I want to be Bukowski.
I want to be Henry Miller.
I want to live in the gutter and
roll around in all the shit
the worst part of town has to offer
so I can turn that filth into
beauty on the page and
a cult following and
a better place in a
nicer neighborhood
with a woman who
will take care of me
and regular royalty checks
to cover my country club dues
and put the kids through college.


About semiblind

Bringing you stark existentialism since 1981.
This entry was posted in best-laid plans, despair, poetry and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s