smoking propaganda

i strike up a match, holding fire in my hands like prometheus,
and rest it at the end of my cigarette, anticipating the crisp
crackle of burning tobacco.

and then like magic, that levitating thick blue wisp,
more elegant than any mammalian movement,
at first rising from the cherry in slow spirals,
then augmenting as it fractures in the current of my breath.
i watch the fractal patterns; whirling more and more chaotic
until final dispersal into the air; hypnotic.

how i pucker for that first drag!
momentarily fulfilling all my bodily and spiritual needs.
the slightest moisture, binding paper to my lip.
savouring the flavour as smoke ripples through the tip.

i part my mouth and slip it in, once more,
tentatively sucking between fingers,
intimately allowing the flow of vapour into my lungs.
deep deep deep inside.
then slowly, halos - exhaled, slide towards heaven, but never make it.

but at night is best, cherries, glowing, in the dark,
with the flare of something alive.
with the power to burn and scar.