|i light another cigarette and hear the orchestra tuning up. a cough and silence. then the doorbell rings. i dont have a doorbell. i sit very still. my uneasiness drifts across the cluttered dining room table. should i answer it? is it love or death? is it a burning paper bag of dogshit or a jehovahs witless? is it the future or the past? the ghost town is silent. no doorbells ring there. i drift across the cluttered dining room table. and i am blinded. dazzled. the stars are out and its daytime. the sky is pure and white and light. and i rise like smoke.
like a piece of lost conversation blown away by a freight train passing by while you where screaming mathematical tables at the sun. i can feel the smoke. wrapping its arms around me. i feel it drifting into my pockets and caressing my dick. i feel god blowing smoke up my ass and i smile. that ticklish and i win smile that you smile when someone sticks their tongue up your ass. i feel the sun and the moon and the stars. i am dazzled and floating, drifting across the cluttered dining room table.
in black and white, burt lancaster is asking me if im happy and i smile, a smile bigger than the bigegest supernova know and he smiles back, even brighter and my skin gets tighter until its not skin anymore, its smoke. and he inhales me into the movie. the ghost town begins to take on colour and clarity. he holds his breath and i twitch. i hold my breath and twitch. and shimmer and twitch, glittering and giggling.
thats not my doorbell. thats not my house. thats not my body. i drift like smoke across the screen. i recite my lines and smile. i smell smoke, but i dont have a cigarette. i look around and realize the theater is burning. i relax and drift across the cluttered dining room table. i pull the cigarette away from my mouth and pull off some skin with it. it hurts. i think of my exwife. poor gloria, what a fool i was. the doorbell rings and i blister, as i pissed her out of my burnt lips. i need a cigarette. i light one and smile as the day drifts across the clutter dining room table. hey marlon, how long have you been smiling? "one cigarette".