How can you sleep at night when you live to **** and torture children?
When your sole focus and purpose is child exploitation?
How can you even breathe?
How can you drink fresh water, that doesn’t taste of blood… that doesn’t choke you?

When all you believe in is hunting down innocence hydrated from mud pools, pulling it from its bud and burning dreams to a crust, calm in your mask of nonchalance…
When the child within and the child you’ve broken - watches you perform these abhorrent acts; how does the child within not shake with terror and repulsion, and every morning that you wake try to destroy you?…

Where are they? There is no child in you…
You are bleak, worthless, worse than sadness, not even material; just the drop of a soulless heartbeat in a void that drags on a **** cigar that will eventually crumble…

For now, you will try to butcher fine lands of olive trees and **** the green…
But you won’t succeed, because you are nothing but weakness

And the distant baby hearts that you heard and shot to order, as well as all of the beautiful, loving and creative creatures that you trampled like flowers; will haunt you…

Because you will realise that you have no destination, no duty of virtue…
Just a sick parasite heart that was too empty to question evil, but why?… too late to wonder as the foul thing ravens you alive leaving breath in your pupils… and bended buds rise around your frozen inward disgust…

But don’t let me stop you, light another **** cigar, in the hope of easing the brain… or there’s always the loaded gun when you finally feel insane…

Smoke rises like clouds
Ripe leaves, dark as the night sky
Ashes fall like rain

The taste
of my cigar
and the whiskey in my
gullet can't fill the pit inside
my chest

Silky
smoke, with a hint
of leather - succulent
spice from the cigar teases my
palette

Before we begin our story
There's something I need to confess
It's this thing I do
I smoke cigars, that's what I do

Does it make me less girly?
I don't think so.
Does it make me less ****?
I really don't think so.

The issue is the taste
The taste given to my kisses
Maybe not to attractive
Maybe not as fresh

But I like cigars, I really do.
So, let me brush my teeth
And now, c'mon, get closer
I have a kiss waiting for your lips

A man is always looking
To get some free advice
So go and find the fellow
Drinking whiskey over ice

Your friends will tell you one thing
While you're both knocking back a beer
But really, I mean really
Is this the stuff you need to hear

Find a whiskey drinker
He'll tell you how to buy a car
He'll share his whiskey wisdom
About what's a good cigar

A man who drinks good whiskey
Whether neat or over ice
Is the best one you can turn to
When you're looking for advice

He's made it and he knows it
He's not drinking at the pub
He's sitting in a wing back
Drinking whiskey at the club

So, if you're looking for assistance
And you need some good advice
Go get some whiskey wisdom
Sharing whiskey over ice

Cigarettes and coffee and you.

If I had to name three things I couldn't live without,
I guess those would be the things. But it’s not an addiction,
per say. I only like cigarettes when your callused fingers
offer them to me,
your wordless expression showing concern and contentess.
I blow away our pain and worries and pass it on for later,
thinking I’ll make some coffee again today.
For both of us like I usually do.
Coconut milk in yours and creamer in mine, right?


My toes are suddenly cold
I dip them in these tender aqua waters,
juxtaposing itself with the Tampa humidity
that laces my cup. I can't tell if
you resting your arms around my waist
brings a fire within me
or if it gives me chills.
I start swaying to some synonymous tune
that happens to play in both of our heads at this moment,
even though the only music is
the wind whistling
through the shells and stems of the palm leaves.

My lips are, coffee and cigarette and you stained.
The painful heat always disrupts this heavenly time for us.

So we’ll meet here, same time tomorrow.
I wouldn't want to live without it.