King Cigarette



Put your cigarette on the edge of the desk and watch through bleary eyes as the moon appears in the sky above. She shivers at the merest touch. She bleeds beneath me and stains the bedsheets crimson. I carry on, though, gazing in awe at the beauty of sacred fluids that turns our act into such savagery. But savages is all we are, and as she smears it across my chest, I want nothing more than to end with one final howl escaping from my ravaged throat. Rainbow kisses, and then a bottle of beer to take the taste away. Writing some time later as she throws her panties into the bin before leaving, there are no words, only the distant cries of birds as the outskirts of the city burn so wondrously. My foreskin is torn, so I soak it in a bowl of warm water. Stood there frowning at my reflection in the mirror, a spider scuttles across the floorboards, but I’m incapable of moving. When I’m healed, I strip the bed and lay on the mattress thinking about what it would be like to be rich. All that money to blow my load upon. So many endless highs. I’d give most of it away. Animals. Cancer charities. Alcohol for struggling writers up and down the land. Taking a walk to ease my restless thoughts, there’s no easing my state of mind. It comes with the territory. It just can’t be helped.

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