blowing out bouquets of cigarettes

there is paint on my face and horror on my palette,
and i can hurt the sensation fighting through my shoulders
like an vacuum's suction,
a bouquet of freshly rolled cigarettes
packed tightly in my forearms, waits to be lit.

and i hate and i love - its all the same to me,
an apathetic distance to softly shoo away
the alchoholic child that buzzes in my ear,
always forcing things down my throat
and finger pointing sentences.

another 5 line stanza just spewed out of my splash,
its vomitous existence reminds me of all this.
ivory irony irritates the art in me.

another period holds this all back
like a stronger comma,
a limitation
blowing out cigarettess and
unplugging appliances and
shooing away all singing children
damming.


but a period can't last long enough
to hold back destiny
or the devil that lives inside my mouth
sweetly infiltrating
sizing me up
crossing wires in my brain
until the thought of tearing someone in half
becomes remotely interesting (blood)

another parenthetical indication
of my pretentious misery
just crept its way into the wire
that the devil crossed while sitting on my tongue

no more punctuation
or parenthesis
or 5th lines that live for cliche sacrifice
and kamikaze stubbornness
blowing out cigarettes

i still love and i still hate