Tendrils of fired molecules shunned so long in hippocampus reservoirs
they've grown verklempt
and reminiscent amongst themselves
Resurrecting happier times
when they entered eager lungs hungry from deep and sweaty love
and when they rode the Dopamine Express
to smart scenarios of conjured bliss
And complemented morning brews
and spirits after evening meals
Ah, that daring toasted taste
that ritual that aromatic spell
that look that style
that...goddam cough that spoiled it all
****
Used to be my favorite brand, then when I couldn't find it, Camels and Chesterfields, then Marlboros... and Kool when I drank a lot. Menthol's the drinker's smoke, but Lucky Strike? Just smelled extraordinary.
*****
*, Mathew. A really fine poem.
Chris, JLD, David--thanks, guys.
Nice smoky mood.
My god YES. "Verklempt" is my favorite word of the day. Will use it to board the Dopamine Express.
Thanks a bunch, ladies. Enjoy the ride, Misti.
*
Thanks, Felicia.
Nice work. I've never smoked, but after reading this I kinda know how it feels *
Thanks, Foster.
Excellent.
Thanks, Gary.
Yes. It's so unfair. But we still have (a little) second hand smoke which I love.
My uncles smoked Luckys? Luckies? Luckys.
Great piece, Mathew!
This poem inspired me to smoke two packs of Lucky's. Damn damn damn this is perfect.
Yup. I remember those mornings of waking up, inhaling, and spending several minutes with the last line of your poem. *
Thank you, Dianne, Joey and Beate. I haven't smoked in some 30 years now, and I still occasionally dream I'm lighting up--and feeling vaguely guilty.