My first love was like my first whiff of a cigarette --
Strong. Overwhelming. Suffocating.
(It was a stick of Marlboro Red if anyone's asking)

Was it too much for someone
who's never smoked or loved in their entire life?
Perhaps. Yet, there I was -- willing to fall forward,
into the abyss of the novelty of it all.

And I did.
Fall -- with the click of the lighter.
Falling -- with each inhale.
Fallen -- with each exhale.

It's been days, weeks, months, years.
I've had lighter cigarettes, flavored love,
and I still get overwhelmed and choke
and tear up even at the first whiff.

But I guess, that's where the charm is.
Not with the ashes that fall to my feet,
but the delicate pressure of lips,
the heat it holds hands with.

The beauty lies in going through the motions.

"When you have 20 bucks in
your pocket you act like your rich,
then you get that itch to drink.
You blow through your money
like a cyclone, like sand through
your hands."
She didn't treat similes well,
and she was always *******.
"You eat up all my food,
and you don't do anything except
sit there and write.
Write and smoke, smoke and write.
Your cigarettes stink up my apartment."
She was always lighting incense, and
spraying air freshener.
I ask her why, if she hates smoke so
much, does she get drunk and
smoke all my cigarettes?
She doesn't respond.
"When are you going to get off
your *** and do something?
But no, you'd rather sit there and smoke.
Smoke and write, write and smoke.
Sure, you **** me, but your ****
doesn't pay the bills."
I ask her if she wants it to, and I
think she might slap me.
"Yea, the *** is great, but we can't
just live on ***."
I suggest we try.  She doesn't
even crack a smile.
"And when I get wine, you drink most
of it, and then you strut around in
your filthy boxers and spout poetry.
Then you just sit there and smoke.
Smoke and write, write and smoke."
She storms off, and an hour later,
with childlike innocence, she asks,
"What are you writing?"

I'm proud of myself and I have something to say.
I quit smoking last year on the 3rd of May.
It was one year ago when I smoked for the last time.
When it came to spending money for tobacco, I haven't spent a dime.

I was coughing up phlegm and I quit smoking because of my health.
My uncle died of lung cancer and I didn't want to do that to myself.
Because I was able to quit smoking, I know others can too.
If you smoke but decide to quit, it will be an excellent thing to do.

Downtown’s sodium orange
penetrates the snow fog around us,
and the xenon sign outside this club
stains your teeth an electric blue.

There are bloodshot eyes behind puffs
of smoke as you **** on a cigarette.

Our feet ***** the salt and butts
under the slush as snow coats our
coats and your short, curly hair.

Your lips lap the tip for mere seconds
at a time, never leaving your lungs
full for long. I watch your chest rise
and fall with each burning breath
and imagine that coat curling away
and falling like ash. But I don’t smoke
and loathe the smell that lingers
betwixt my fingers.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet

All my poems are
Wet, stinky, and brown.
Last night was wild,
And I mean it
It was proper uncivilised,
Things were said that were stupid
Lies celebrated
And truth passed around like a *****,
It started slowly:
Smoking around strangers
Starting a conversation
With my beer –
she’s always so glad to see me
she makes me feel so special
like I’ve actually got something to say
More strangers come in
I think I’m overdressed
They’re all wearing sneakers & T-shirts
Advertising one thing or the next
In their eyes I must be a commercial for something too
Something silly, no doubt
Look, we can help each other
Let’s have a drink
What’s your name
I like football too
No, I don’t care about teams ..
Okay, I need a ***,
It started slowly:
One then another drink
Lifting our heads out of the infinite bed of boredom
Let’s see, let’s play
It’s dark enough to get personal
If only we knew how
Another track of dominoes to hear & say
I wish I knew some fascists
Agreeing is so dull & unproductive
Don’t you agree?
Oh, you need a ***
That’s fine, I could use a smoke
Maybe talk to some women
But they’re all so mad at men these days
I’ll have to wear a disguise
What could I be?
A lion
Or a peacock
Or maybe an orangutan?
Perhaps then they will tell me
Why they have consciously surrendered the greatest power they have over men
Was it disgust and disappointment
Or pure prophetic wisdom
Or solidarity with those less powerful among their kind?
I think of Angela Merkel and I am confused
I need help
I need serious help
At the bar
A shot & a long drink
A shot & a long drink
I accidentally catch my reflection in the mirror behind all those bottles and I don’t know who I am
I have a peacocks tail
Lion’s *****
And the face of an orangutan
And I’m starting to smell like a man
A shot & a long drink
A shot & a long drink
To cover it all
Let’s have a ball!
Embrace a lack of sense
Lemme buy you a drink
Tell me about yourself,
I’ll keep quiet, I’m interested
Wow, now that’s a story I’ve never heard before
I should write a book about you
Or a poem if tonight we happen to sleep together
It’s up to you, I don’t mind
We all do as we please
Until it pleases us to surrender,
It’s late, you say
I take it the wrong way and go for a ***
When I come back
I go for a smoke instead
And when I look for you
I forget your face
So I end up reading my poems to whoever listens
Which works just as well
Or badly
I’m using my drink as an ashtray
And then when I turn another page
I spill it all over my texts
Now all my poems are wet, stinky & brown
That’s how I find them in the morning
Stuffed into my pants,
I’ll take the pants to the laundry
Maybe they’ll come out clear & dry
And smelling of pomegranate.

A half burnt smoke never tastes the same
As an un-lit cigarette.
It’s the same with love.

We can never tumble back in time to;
Happy nights nuzzling in bed,
Clandestine kisses on the dock at midnight,
Drinking in glorious sunsets and city lights.
As if we could ever pretend that the world was perfect.

We can never dance back into;
Long car rides to Victoria,
Drunk laughs in the rain,
Late night cuddles on the couch
Playing video games to our hearts content.

In all honesty, I don’t need to live in the past
I like smoking full cigarettes to make them last.

Empty streets, flickering lights
Not a soul in sight in the darkness of the night.
No fevered whispers, no drunken gait,
No flirty couples, no late-night deadlines.

The streets are devoid of life,
And yet you can't say it's dead.

People are living, breathing, sleeping,
under different roofs, in different rooms,
in varying states of ecstacy and misery and outright boredom.
In endless creativity and stuttering breaths,
witness the arousal and the ebb and flow of time
without so much as a second thought
to anyone outside the realm of safety and peace
within the four corners of their reality.

With each inhale, there is life.
Why can't we say that each exhale brings death?

For what is death if not simply as the absence of life?
When the glimmer in his eyes fades, when the smile you long for
doesn't appear, when you reach for his hand and find nothing but air--

Life.
It's empty.
Life.
It's meaningless.

I don't feel alive without you.
Yet I don't feel like I'm dead, either.

And so here I am, in a weird limbo that is just pain, pain, pain--
The pain of each inhale not bringing me what life is supposed to be
as described in picturesque scenes from tiny little windows.
The disappointment of every exhale that brings no end to this emptiness, this chasm of nothing in my chest that you once filled.

Empty streets, like veins that pump blood that refuse to sing.
Flickering lights, from my lighter that spouses one last, dying flame.
No fevered whispers, no drunken gait.
No love, no adrenaline.
Nothing.