#tobbaco

Cash Crop Blues (burn).

I was born in the wet country, asleep in the germ that arose to greet the sun, anchored down by the skin of the tidewater.

John Rolfe had his way with me behind the farm house where his native wife drew her breath on the dark walls of history.

I got harvested in summer, my blossom heavy, showing sound to the consonants with the dope of the soil.

Strung up and hog tired I dried for you

You didn't know me then

But I was patient.

My casing crackled like a runaway bruise, bruised still in the dormant heat of being still.

I was reared in the market place, branded about the waiste with the hyrogliphs of corporate ink.

I've been seen by thirsty eyes

that never stop thirsting.

Deranged eyes that bring noise with them when they shop for something to burn.

My atoms, my very dust have felt the nuzzle of a cylinder's dream

and the snug fuck of a filter tip has made me complacent.

So now I'm packed in with all the nobodies, trying to breath in the dark.

Oh how I long for you to come find me.

Your discerning hand that could pluck me from this insane lottery, will be my salvation.

I want to be held by you in the shallow twilight.

I tremble at the thought of being taken to the flame and transmuted from the stone into the butterfly.

I ache for your mouth, your listless drags, your tender rosebuds that pull on the tresses of my vanity.

I hope I can live in your voice, filling you with fire, until your nerves throb with my unbridled misery

and then, just mayby

a part of me will live in you forever, until it rots you from the inside out

and we both cease to burn*