Failed production values
and a horrifying wreckage of flesh
sift through an endless harangue,
discarding all traces of smoke
and past reminders
if ever there were.
Somebody wants to feel special,
and the other is just along for kicks.
There’s a cigarette that picks apart
the foundations, and folds
the implications of being slowly
within the tattered floorboards, somewhere
you wouldn’t be inclined to dig.
We’ve failed to sequester
the frenzy that sent him
spinning round in a chair through her
Caged in a sheltering of hair.
Fleeing to darker climes.