Victory?

So this is what it comes to?

Making love to this

slender cigarette between my lips

in morning and evening traffic.

Today I conquered the gladiators

of the corporate coliseum;

me - a young "fucked up"

wanderer of the universe,

wild-eyed artist,

fragile vampire,

psychedelic acid rat…

Wading through these cars,

my mind ambling,

I feel like a warrior who,

this day,

has slain a mighty buffalo

in a hunt that took months.

And there is no-one

to take it home to as a gift;

to boast my trophy.

But it is mine;

my soft smile that stalks

my cynical soul.

Victory is my bloody treasure.

And so,

this is the meaning of

our existence…?

The comfort of this cigarette?

The afterglow?

The peace treaty I signed with

disillusion,

and folded into the pocket

of my desire for

fires of passion,

significance and that legend

called love?