Joanne Burns

 

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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

wealth

 

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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