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  Darren Anderson
   
     
Faller's Fuel
 
The cigarette sleeps
on jaundice pillows
that patch finger's flesh.
A lucky strike fag
is my hour glass,
tobacco ash tells the time.
 
My companion is a cup
of dying coffee
that begs to be drank.
Its day old bold
bean dirt taste pastes
my tired tongue brown.
 
I frown on this moment
when work is on the wane,
and boredom is a stimulant
that winds my clock
to the jolting rhythm
of caffeine and nicotine.



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