smokers die young

i wasted my time
25 years
lousy boyfriends
bath-roomed tears
i watched the hand
of time tic
i munched on monotony
got me sick
as the world whistled
obliviously
it got me thinking
obviously
don't get me wrong
im in love wit me
i adore my knee
but. there is the but.
we cut ourselves
watch blood drip
the pang of pain
hands over the grip
note: im anaemic.
so much for the romantic
she was a friend
smoked like a man
waving her hand
as her bare back caught a tan
the cigarette.
the cigarette.
it reeked more spirituality
than holy incense
it fumed and spoke
(made the passive less tense)
as she spoke of sundry love
she seemed to me a warrior
a saga of lust
Lacan says women "lack"
you sure about that?
the organ we politely avoid!
shamefully designed
no sir, you don't make it on today's tabloid
we are the men in lace
the reconditioned race
fighting the horrors
of a pimpled face
daring the demons
of kitchen disgrace

smokers die young.