Smoking Room

Glass Nobility
Licks My Lips
Transparently Re-Inventing
A Geographic Touch
Swallowing Half-Closed
Denying Thirst
That Fingers Drink
From The Excess Poured
In My Quivering
Sight Struggles
To Admit
That Even The
Transmutes To
Gunpowder Air
To Shoot Arrows
At The Natural
Pounding Along My
That Builds Roads
Moving Spheres of
Passionate Permanence
Passive Possession, and
Throbbing Inhabitation
Like The Phosphorescence
In My Exploratory Room
And The Smoke
In My Ruminating Lungs

Smoking taken in the right light and environment looks sexy, at least to me, and may be the only reason I tried it. It hurt, so I stopped after only an introductory puff, but ‘sexy’ stayed with me, and though I’d never met upon another willing to indulge, explore, or experiment in the ways I’d conjured, or sought to conjure, I wasn’t entirely discouraged.

Growing up, I didn’t have a bedroom of my own, neither did I want for one. What I wanted was companionship, the kind that bedrooms were first built for, the kind I could burn with, and moan into beneath embers, to awaken refreshed through a communing smoke. It seemed too much to ask, or too much to admit wanting, so my expression tended to sabotage my truth, and return to me an energy of the same. So my body was not sexually expressed in fullness. It accepted what it received, not knowing what to do with all it still had to give.

My body and I are now one, but for many years, in fact most of my life, I didn’t think my body was mine, and though I am not the only owner, I yearn for one investor, that I might multiply his wealth with my love.

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