The sky lights the fair
with the screams of potential,
The dry nights are rare
but the dreams are torrential,
Those infinite days
so meaningfully spread
in cigarette haze
in dreams of bloodshed,
Thus christened by squalls
killed there by heartbreak,
The crimson stained walls
are still there when I wake,
The beauty, the faerie,
the stud and the surgeon;
the ruby, the cherry,
the blood of the virgin…
I slake the abused;
I nurse and I wet…
I wake up confused;
I thirst and forget…
But the blood is still there
and my cock needs a stroking…
The flash flood despair
of a non-smoker smoking.
Written by Jason Wright
February 11, 2020