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cigarettes & my William Burroughs, death himself

And there we stood - smoking
and talking
about what - I can’t remember
then he - walked by
tall, thin, old with thick box glasses
he was an image of
death himself
“Not many of us left”
whispered out of his mouth
like a slight draft
“We’re a dying breed” I thought
to myself– a dying breed– how funny
I never thought of that phrase
in that way - and now how significant
it was like words were never better
placed but ...somehow as he breezed
past our only response was ..."yeap"
And we continued to smoke - now
in silence; lingering evermore so
every time the paper touched our
lips, it was like little death kisses
and I could hear, “burning ring
of fire” playing from the streets
empty silence.

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