and smokestack was no illusion or exaggeration or allusion but a chem-trail vortex clinging to all air, was the thing that made those film-noir movies so great
swirling vortexes doing a ritual dance over still bodies.
these are the legends woman are made of for those of us that still believe in such things.
swirling minarets clung to all-air
miniature epic scratchings between particle lines,
bad masturbations in dank places and good ones in sunny spots,
the young man's desire for excess.
i need i need i need a last cigarette to make this thing complete
or many last cigarettes for my many last hands and many last mouths.
i need i need i need a last diner to end this scene properly.
a last grilled cheese or many last grilled cheeses for my many last stomachs.