No Symbols

Cigarettes and God don’t mix forms,
and the succubus sits on my chest
to stop my mouth from chasing insanity.
I search it out and cry in pain
with discoveries of the they.
There is a warning label on all,
attempts to control spirit and lust,
but it fails. They fail.
Terror balances lust, emotion,
and red covers the street dispassionately.
Hold your comments ‘til the end,
please. But there he is, glancing at me
from behind the flannel curtain
and I can’t help but to undress slowly
in front of the long mirror, to entertain
or beg forgiveness.