Cigarettes and Crickets
In the concrete walls of the shantytowns,
A young rose cracked through the cordons.
The rose encountered a thorn,
That perforated through its petals,
To deflower and plant a seed,
Of lust, love and tear buds.
A thorn and a rose,
Became inseparable.
As the rose wandered for its own light,
The thorn felt deserted;
For in the wild of tamed passions,
That rose was all it ever knew.
Eventually change won,
As it is wont to.
So I was abandoned,
At the clemency of taciturn night falls.
No more melody,
But hanged-up phone calls,
Un-replied text messages,
And chilly nights,
At the veranda.
As Maersk shipping drivers,
Stopped by to cuddle prostitutes,
I smoked cigarettes with them,
And listened to the crickets.
I couldn’t sleep in that bed,
Where you-
My rose-
Used to lay,
And intoxicate me,
With wet tongue tips,
Throbbing my ears;
With wet whispers.
Sometimes we went out into the night naked,
To cool our bodies in the night breeze.
I would then light a cigarette,
And blow ashes to the crickets,
As your cold hard nipples,
Pricked my back.
Years later,
I quit smoking,
And walking at night,
For both cigarettes and crickets,
Remind me,
Of your fire,
And nights we made love,
Until my thorn,
And your rose,
Grew bristles.
I still have that blemish,
On my penis,
Where you bit me,
As you tried to give me,
An amateurish blow job.
©Wudz, '14
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