poetry critical

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Shared cigarettes

Contained misery.
There is Art in our spit.
Sooty fingers,
cracked in kerosene.
Filthy cigarette stubs, incorporate these ashes
saved for desperate nights.
Nothing is real but this stone cold floor.
These ochre pastels
liquid ink flowing from our pens
thinly dried paper
that we scar with our lives.
Shared fumes of acrid burns.
Smoky tendrils wafting through frigid air.
Soft daydreams of comfy beds,
sheets stained with foreboding lust
love my sooty fingers.
Dirt stained enigmas.
What can be shared on these soft nights
nothing but our need to feel
nothing is real
but this stone cold floor.
Intimate evenings occupied by shared cigarettes.

16 Nov 06

Rated 7 (7.3) by 2 users.
Active (2): 5, 9
Inactive (1): 8

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like poem.
like an ashtray?
 — crepaway

Bravo!  Love it!  My only suggestion is L's 23-24.  

"this cold floor and our shared cigarettes."  Somehow intimate sticks out like a sore thumb here and clashes with the "coldness" of the poem.  Plus it adds somewhat of a "clunk" to the last line.  Absolutely AWESOME poem.  A favorite, actually.  Keep up the "cold" work!
 — starr

The poems are a bit too solid - perhaps some punctuation that creates a short pause would be better?
 — WordsAndMe