I can still smell the cordite

as it lingers in the air,

as it fuses with the cheap

whisky of my youth and the perfume,

the beautiful perfume of a hundred women

I’ve kissed, I longed for…

and yet I still smell the cordite

as I see the blue smoke

clouding my fingers,

collecting ash,

collecting the death bit by bit

I deny myself.

 

The cordite, the aftermath

of a Hemmingway smile

is perhaps preferable

to the slice,

by slice of loose skin, of taut skin,

of dead flesh; too slow, too Ophelia

to drown, dyed red hair only wet.

The bitter taste of Codine,

an escape but it only

offers ulcers and bad memories

of moments when I have been an idiot,

of when I have been a shit,

of when I was nothing less

than human…

I smell the cordite, I smell

peace.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015