Nicotine
Two years five months five days nine
hours forty-five minutes without you
without that kick in the pants without
that shot in the arm without that burning
alarm bell in my chest my eyes shooting
open my pulse quickening my mouth
stretching into a rictus grin I do miss you
even as my children breathe without
impediment even as my wife and I taste
our dinners and desserts I miss having
something to do while driving something
to give me a break at work something
to depend on I love you still or maybe not
love so much as lust I lust you cigarette
I long for your fire in my mouth but on
the other hand you killed my father
so go fuck yourself you fucking fuck
11 thoughts on "Nicotine"
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good poem
some say it’s harder than booze, meth, heroin. “the art of losing’s not too hard to master/though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster” EB
This is, legitimately, going on my mirror and in my car, sir. Right there, right now.
I miss it every day. Thanks for this poem.
Currently in the process of quitting and this poem could not be more perfect.
that says it all (as i reach for the next last one).
THE DOSE AGE
N.B. The Dose Age is a Found Poem based on
Sean L. Corbin’s “Pill Poetry” (as coined by Amy
Camuglia). I used his poems Wellbutrin, Abilify,
Zoloft, Omeprazole and Nicotine
Little white pill in the clouds—
each day you pull me into the
enough-to-breathe-sphere, I know
I am chemically on the jet stream,
oh my darling, oh my dear!
A daily dream: a feather that turns into evening,
the dying sun waiting to kiss my wife,
that edge in the morning clouds,
where the wild spike’s laughter is a maze.
Blue dishes and waxen arguments, too complicated
to punch random walking opinions, or write a sketch.
Like lights down the hatch, the yellow disk drops,
magic everything is a photograph—
a neon fire elopes, a level surface is steady,
I can finally breathe and no one blisters,
but, the heat—the heat
is lost just like a kiss far away.
The safety net snaps, falls out between my fingers.
This is something to choke on, after vomiting.
I need to settle, keep the cherry chalk burning back,
I need to suck until it cools.
Eventually the urge covers the wretch.
My eyes bleed, veins burst pointless acid.
My tongue sweating the porcelain memory,
fading thought, “Mercy, some God, You.”
Two minutes without You,
without that burning bell in my chest,
or my shooting open pulse, or the quickening grin—
“I miss you, my children.”
“Breathe, my wife.”
“Taste something. Give me something.
To love or long for.”
The fire in my mouth breaks the silence—
You killed yourself.
Fucking fuck.
(C) Edelweiss Meadows-Millstone
That’s awesome!
Thanks! Sean’s poetry is a great inspiration–it’s all about his words!!
I don’t know what to say. I’m honored. This is really cool.
I’m so glad that you like it Sean! It was a pleasure to do because your poetry you’ve shared here is so rich with–everything!
Love this! Ever read Billy Collins’ “The Best Cigarette”? You may like it. I certainly like what you write!