illegal cigs (cheap)

one poem

Of course we all know
that the things we can buy
with the proceeds from larping
as one of those guys from
the class system days who
would go with their liege 
to the urinals to ensure
someone would be there to 
not look at His Lordship's
penis, or God forbid
one of the jobs that are 
hard, can be traded

which, yes, is the same as saying 
that the penis guy 
is the same as the guy 
whose penis falls into the 
industrial rolling machine
permanently injuring 
one of his spatial dimensions.

But somehow I had not 
known until now (at least 
not in the way that I 
know how far away His 
Lordship prefers me to 
stand) that the value itself 
is the thing that feels 
good to smoke. Certainly 
it's not the taste, nor the 
oral sensation, nor 
is it how cool it looks 
(I have not been 
photographed in ten years) 
and nor is it the nicotine
which is in everything 
these days, like jokes about 
how it is shameful to 
stand on a stage like an 
overgrown child who
puts on a for-profit 
magic show, but not 
remotely as shameful as 
paying to see it, and 
nor the addiction, which 
only feels pleasant, or
bad, when you need it to 

no: what it is is that 
while you are safely descending 
the harness can rub, which is 
very annoying, and so
then at some point you look 
at the faraway earth 
and decide that while you 
cannot justify cutting 
the cord, being sane 
you might still get away
with pulling out your Webley
and blasting some holes
in the parachute.