The Pleasure of Poison


The Pleasure of Poison

I misplaced myself this morning.
Here on the ridge above the levels,
here on this wet steaming log
over-soaked in winter sunshine.

This, I reckon, is life ground-down,
like beach sand, and there’s no
way of knowing if it’s my breath
or smoke that sinks in clouds on
my head. I used to be pernickety

about which poison I chose. Then
I quit smoking, and I became less
discriminating. Reckon I’ve done
myself a greatness by stopping,

and now I sit here on this log,
and squeeze my warm breath
into smoke rings. Sometimes,
I miss the pleasures of poison.


Words remixed/inspired by pgs 40-42
of The Mystery of Edwin Drood by Charles Dickens


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