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signals of a pristine gommorah


His features morph
       a true fish
gulping up curiosity.
up the mirage
Altering casual absorption
after trespassing a last
autumn rush of coffee roast
your quiet liquid cinder.
        Through the disaster of 
public you were born
in the     cigarette alleys
Evening is your call.    
Never awakened
by anothers broad shoulders
cleansed from summer sweat
You who  have never sipped 
    blessed lungs with oxygen . 
Walk through rising ashes
absent from audience.
Last few words: 
********* * * * Im my family's religion there is a strict code about what is considered healthy and breaking that code is serious. My dad goes outside to talk with the smokers or walks a little bit longer by coffee houses simply because he likes the smells they have, to the people close to him they are concerned about it. Coffee and cigarettes arent the best for you I know that much but it goes a little further than that. Out here its extremely offensive to have either, same with tea, in a way its symbolic about what we reject even if it is what we truly connect with. Thats one small example of things he has avoided to be included. I am very odd with strange tastes and I know he is too. He never tastes so to speak. This is about harmful repression.
Editing stage: 


Thanks for catching that Seren. Nice to hear from you

author comment

I loved the visuals this gave me, the quiet soft feeling of the poem, look forward to reading more of you.

"The perfect woman perpetrates literature as she does a small sin: as an experiment, in passing, to see if anybody notices it - and to makes sure that somebody does." - Nietzsche

Hi WhiteTea, I am also pleased to see your return.

I had a thought about the ending and then I reread your poem, this time with your commentary.
Would you consider:

rising through the ashes,
without audience...


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