Oliver Nejad

Coffee and Cigarettes

In murky pleasure, fingers rest.

Cradling a cigarette – hand rolled,

Wrinkled raw.

Smouldering.

Pressed between lip, and the grimace of youth

As gentle licks of grey

Obscure his vision’s corner,

Flickering.

As newborn temporary pleasure,

Living short its life

To the car horn muse.

Soon finds itself in a sunken pit

Face down,

Ground in between battlements.

On nicotine fuelled days

Where dull, heavy musk hangs malignant.

He sits.

And - raising a cup of crude

To toast the capital bullshit passing -

He peers over near pressed vessel,

Straining through a blur of steam.

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