tonight is numb fingers and weird semi-metaphors and it’s 3AM, not 2

when i become a cancer vampire
transliterated using the alphabet of curling smoke
i am almost a god– my voice drops and smooths itself
into sensuality and brooding,
my posture is casual, my pose quizzical.
i wax prolific.

philosophy and sexual chemistry
become my favorite topics,
because i am suddenly excellent at intellectual conversation
and everyone wants to hear what i’ve got to say

and all my discourses on me, me, me
are of the utmost importance to
whatever rapt audience i’ve chosen as the night’s victim.

cancer vampires are magnetic that way
and there’s nothing like breathing fire for five minutes
with a pretty boy hanging on your words like suicide jumpers
with changed minds–

until the last drag, when i press a butt into the rail
or crush it like cowboys beneath my boot
and go inside, myself once again
(now caped in carbon monoxide trails).

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