SMOKING IS A NASTY HABIT
THAT CRAWLS INTO YOUR LIFE.
A BLACK BEATLE THAT CAN
NAVIGATE THICK GRASS AND TWIGS.
SILENTLY CLINGING TO THE
DAY-TO-DAY STRESSES OF THE
BRUSH, IT TAKES TINY BITES
FROM LEAVES LEFT BEHIND.
NOBODY NOTICES THE WOUNDS
ON THE DISCARDED PEDALS,
THEY ARE LOOKING UP
AT THE BRANCHES, SPIRALING
TOWARD THE SKY IN A CODE
SEQUENCED AND PROGRAMMED
BY GOD, WHO ALSO MAKES BEATLES.
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YOU THINK YOU STOMPED IT
UNDER YOUR SHOE, ITS HARD SHELL
CRACKING AS WHITE BLOOD
JETS OUT INTO THE INTRICATE
WEB OF YOUR SOLE.
BUT THE EGGS IN YOUR LUNGS
HATCH WITH EACH BREATH,
EXHALED ONTO THE FIBERS
OF YOUR JACKET, TICKLING
THE HAIR ON YOUR UPPER LIP,
PASSING FROM FOREST TO
FOREST ON FRONT PORCHES,
BAR STOOLS, ROOFTOPS, BEACHES.
THE SUN SETS, ORANGE AS YOUR
FINGERTIPS THAT PINCH
THE SPINY LITTLE BASTARD
WHO KILLS YOUR GRANDFATHER.
A CALCULATED LOSS IN GOD’S PLAN.
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