Art galleries are like smoke breaks.
A good excuse to stare in to space &
Appear occupied as you merely think.
Contemplate uncontextualized nothing.
Stories
I wear my heart on my silence
I lay my head on your twisted arm.
My heart is a magnetic weight.
The Acquaintance of Tarantula and Black Widow
A black widow has decided to live
in the far, right corner of my
favorite smoke spot.
We sit on opposite ends
and observe each other warily.
She sits upside down with pointy legs,
I imagine she supposes, menacingly.
And for whatever reason
the smoke is so bright blue today;
just floating along quite prettily.
But she just sits there
looking all dark and broody.
I wonder how she could stay there so long
in one place.
I wonder if she smokes cigarettes
or reads books, or talks on the phone.
And what she contemplates.
Probably she thinks of making babies,
and then eating her unfortunate boy,
who's probably skinny and pathetic,
and doesn't have pointy legs.
But that's a pity,
cause I doubt that's his fault.
this be me
Snow trapped in my house;
Lie in bed, read a book.
Go outside in a coat.
Light a smoke and
Watch the hot air swirl.
Wear my best, jeans and sweater,
Make my hair a trashy mess.
Powder my face, till I feel pretty.
Like a legit girl in one of those glamour forty’s movies,
Where all she does is smoke
And drink coffee and red wine,
And never eats a thing so
She can look trashy and pretty in her best dress and worst hair, all day in bed.
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