Joanne Burns




joanne burns



you could smoke smoke smoke

as you crossed the sahara on a

camel, smiling all the way


be a hero in any old rollicky navy,

ashing into fiery wakes; archetypal mariner meets

captain puff


ride a wild stallion down through

a canyon, a full pack in your rugged

pocket, and a red tip jutting from your basalt lips


flare flirt and glow like a gypsy

dancing to the lore of the castanet ―


climb to an alpine valhalla with a slimline

packet in your alliterative purse, teeth

as fresh as health


gold tips and pastel cocktails spark

towards you, diligent frissons of glamour and



some would choose to roll

their own; diy-ers, measured

lick of wafery papers – haikus

in the pouch


your laughter at your own black phlegm,

how old is 22: tracheitis or a poet’s

banquet, a huysman’s soirée


waking up for another drag:

first stretch of the day,

a vitamin of fresh tobaccy juice,

aubade through hazy slats






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