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