ride the M8

Berlin - Berlin
your wide open spaces
your 1st gear paces
your colourful communism
so dated and preserved
in residential concrete
still
shining a shadow on our grey
western council slums

and further east you see the slant
snapping at the fair poverty
of egalitarian property
like an urban safari
of extinct culture

smoking propaganda II

i need a breath of monoxide to stop me from dying
to whip out the apparatus of a smoking barrel
from a side-pocket holster

dispensing a concertina of bleachy sheets
moistened through a fabric of humid shorts
in a greenhouse denim of a fully clothed sauna

peeling at clingy membranes
and separate sheets
dumping brown cancer inside a pale skin

itchy fingers rolling like beads and droplets
my molten scalp falling into a half made craddle
so salty fresh

then a careful twist like delicate origami
(it seems impossible)
till lucifer dances and i breathe like a dragon