what's there to smell?

life's catastrophe is rolling over,

he dusted off his fanal shirt,

wiggling hard between fingers,

night is flapping wings of dark webs,

he puts his addiction on his forefinger,

dwelling smoked shadows are dancing now,

he can't see anything but blurred.

maybe life is fine in this way,

narrowed wood-ness described the manly beast,

boney herbs only for weak.

he closes his eyes,

takes a long gulf of cigars necrotic,

inhale the vapour, exhale the griefs. 

━━━━━━━━━━━━