My Blue Heaven

Maybe I could cry – or go smoke a cigarette or something;
dream a happy ending, cosmetic surgery perhaps.
“You have a blue nose you know”
“Why don't you say anything about it?”
“It doesn't mean we don't love you”

Have I mentioned the fragrance by which I am sustained ..
Oh well, you haven't the nose for it
It matters not really – you will know, probably already
Know about that twisted limb by which only you unfold
Ah, our own little god-sent chariot of suffering


Nice poem!!