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,