Impressions After a Menthol Cigarette

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See those city sparkles of illumination glistening in the moon light?

Out there in the middle of the cold and lonely night?

Those are the souls of our hearts bleeding into the cavity of love

Squeeze them tight, but be careful, each light is a dove

Fragile like the membrane of sweet-water only dust can float on

     without remorse

You cannot make them give you their loyalty, you cannot love

     by force

But you can lure them all to the waterfall of holy ablution’s dream

And when they take off their politically-correct heavy winter coats,

     the stream –

…of never ending drops of divinity will cleanse them

     from within

Each man before each woman, naked but without sin

If we only wade into the pool at the foot of the mountain

We might feel our way to the head of the fountain

And drinking from the waters within the waters comingling true

We would know what destiny wishes for each of us to do.

 

I light up a menthol cigarette and inhale the cold windy sky

The little flame at the end of the plastic lighter flickers

     ready to die

The rooftop I am on is an oasis, happy chatter of strangers,

     a song

I am standing with perfect aliens, and I get along

The national wellness program to lose weight and be healthy enough

     when dead –

…hasn’t yet made us all live in dictatorial dread

I remember when that building across the street was full of life

When I was a child I played with the wind, avoiding strife

Now the breeze has come back to mess up my hair

And somewhere in a dark remote mountain lair –

…there hides the remnant of my previous self, an outcast,

     a dreamer

One who fancies himself some sort of redeemer

I know him well, he is an illusion

Born out of loneliness and cultural confusion.

 

My Calavera has fallen on the concrete floor, I pick it up and

     hold it dear

Inside the little plastic skull there hides a residue of primal fear

The city twinkles, the minty cigarette tastes cold and fresh

A bit of invigorating carcinogen permeating my tired flesh

The cell phone vibrates in a texted bit of longing from afar

Twinkle, twinkle my minty city, full of gritty wishes upon a faded star

If only the crowd wasn’t so full of people who know each other well

If only everyone wasn’t so damned nice and so cool, and gosh darn it,

     just so swell

The waiter brings around some crumpled miserable thing he calls

     an appetizer

If only I was younger here, not so cynical, not another year wiser

I co-mingle and toast with my beer to wash away the cynical aftertaste

Let’s wage love not war; one of the girls looks at me, in haste

She flirts very shyly and coyly goes home alone, not smashed,

     just tipsy, a bit

I remember back when I was a child, how difficult it was to admit –

 

…that the city is full of angry lonely people who are tired

     of the anger

That the world is full of hungry sad folks, hungry for

     something bigger

That food is not enough to feed the masses in these days

     of longing

That all men and women are after some sense of ideal belonging

Without religion and nationalism, and politics so old hat

What’s there left for people to do, how to reinvent the skinning

     of the cat?

But, it isn’t me, I am just one token bloke sitting on the side

I have gotten so tired, that I can’t be bothered even to hide

It is the era, the rushed epoch of never ending lore

A full warehouse of stars, and a glitzy website internet store

We’ll sell you all the old 1950’s TV shows again, for a premium

God is dead, so I love Lucy will be the new opium

All we need to do, is get every man, woman and child to plug in

And then we’ll all be naked together, without pesky original sin.

 

Adam, tell me, was it this that the taste of the apple was like?

Eve, did you blush, don’t be shy, come up to the mike

They will tell us, Paradise was a thing that Milton invented

That the Bible is full of lies, and that finally even the Vatican relented

But I will tell you God lives on in the shadows of my city

Hiding in-between the stars that flicker, each star a joke that’s

     oh so witty

He’s hiding in the souls of common folk, certainly not like

     you and me

No, in fellows like that pan-handler who is truly free

Arrogant and desperate enough to walk up to you and be bold

He has no ambition to conquer the whole world

His only goal is to get a couple of quarters out of sharp dressed men

Maybe bum a cigarette and a light, just when you least expect it,

     that’s when

The democratic effect of smoking Menthols with a vagabond

“What’s your name buddy?” I ask him, and he says

     “The name’s Bond, James Bond.”

December 9, 2011 – Konrad Tademar

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