Sunday, November 21, 2010

ATY's November Poem

Think, Nathan Explosion, or his inspiration George Corpsegrinder Curtis from Cannibal Corpse. My alternate title was "What Non-Smokers Think the Smoker's Creed Is".

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Murdersmoke


Death takes allegiance from all,
every last knee bows to his will,
but we will stand before the end,
while smoke still curls from pale lips grown cold,
lips clasped round phoenix poles,
thick trunk of tobacco,
birthed in hell and fed with flames,
for this hour our fire reigns.

Guillotine cleaves scalp,
flames flicker beneath feet,
breath in life and death,
ashes will cover the ground,
heavens blotted out by our clouds,
we do not wait but wander,
we do not wish but win,
for this hour our fire reigns.

Take the thick mantle,
this helm of hell once thought lost,
return to the rage of ancient days,
eviscerate body from bone,
layer the land with lifeless cadavers,
release the tempest of your soul,
fill the world with your bitter smoke,
for this hour our fire reigns.

Do not let days away,
do not hold back your face,
death shall claim his right,
and you, his servant, will win his praise,
smoke as fast as you possibly can,
spread the smog to smother the living,
cities will choke until hearts stop beating,
for this day our fire reigns.

Friday, November 19, 2010

For All to Know

"There was a moment's silence in which Sinbad was immersed in the thoughts that seemed continually to occupy him, even in the midst of conversation, and Franz abandoned himself to the silent reverie into which one almost invariably falls when smoking fine tobacco, which seems to carry away all the sufferings of the mind on its smoke and give the smoker in exchange all the dreams of the soul." -Alexander Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo

Thursday, November 18, 2010

ATY's October Poem

"This Poem Probably Has You In It"

This land is your land, this land is my land, this land was made for you and me.
- Woodie Guthrie

Human is a political (social and civic) animal.
- Aristotle.

I've got a slow-burning cigar and I'm just sitting there. As it puts out a thick veil of smoke, my car takes me from one person I love to another. I'm alone, listening to Mozart as the farmland sort of slides past on either side. I'm afraid I wont leave any mark but the vanishing scent dispersing behind me. I'm afraid I'll come around a corner and see a cop car or an elk in the road. I'm afraid of too many things as I sit there, still, moving quickly, with my halo of smoke. I realize that I wont leave a mark here, no matter how hard I try, because this just isn't my land. This isn't where I stomp off the snow in winter, remove my coat, and sit in the library for a conversation of moment. This isn't where I occupy a camping chair for a dark night debating bright thoughts. This isn't where I play board games with a wolf sleeping at the feet of my opponent. This isn't where I met most of my friends, in a lounge now outlawed. This isn't where I sit on a lawn, spending summer afternoons. This is somebody else's here. My heres are elsewhere, enclosed by the walls of loved one's smoke.

Friday, November 12, 2010

Evan Gunn's Tobacco poem #4

One Lover Doubtfully Fit

The Indians grew for spiritual gain,
While Ralegh brought seen King James pain.
Then Kipling wrote for you and for Wife,
Before Winston's coin in nation's strife.
But you for me,
O, Tobakee;
You and I have little worth.
Tho' you are my Queen
My Lady Nicoteen,
Our shared silence has joy and mirth.

Did My Father force our hands in marriage,
Or had I gotten to know you well?
Regarding my rank we did disparage,
As society minded our wedding bell.

We met at fourteen, arranged by sixteen,
Treating as though I deserved you.
I did intervene, and not always clean,
For my unlovable ways I hadn't a clue.

But having grown older, while young in time,
I achieved no less than to prove you're mine.
You lovely lass, that cannot submit,
It is I that choose when you be lit.
To you I plead,
And as my creed,
May we stand by awaiting death stroke.
For you there's no heav'n;
By Me all I've giv'n
Your only virtue is that I smoke.

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

Evan Gunn's Tobacco Poem #3

Please excuse the first stanza (as I ask for much of my poetry). I feel it is a bit campy but I could not resist posting it up with the rest of the poem for two reasons. 1) It is my duty to admit to and reveal my bad poetry to those whose opinions I regard more than most. 2) I kind of like campy poetry. Enjoy.

Refrain from tobacco and conquer the world. Smoke the delight and conquer the mind. Both will kill a man seldom more than anything else, but no additional pain is heaped. Choose accordingly to the place God gave you.

Could Caesar been better had he smoked?
Would he have come with pipe in hand?
Should he had seen or the pipe had choked?
Why for had he conquered the Gaulish Land?

Pursuing a thought, a pleb would puff,
Firing ideals, the ugly mug in gruff.
Smoke is for that man, standing low;
Good use for his time when leaves in glow.

Greater Alexander was, having not partook,
Tho' Epictetus in mind might have increased.
Hierarchical identity has poor notions shook,
Leveled with dirt, smoking after when ceased.

Know thy worth and choose in accord,
An unhappy life is easily gained.
Smoke plenty while under your lord,
For he will not, running lives un-pained.