The Smoke Sculptors of Doha

 

The Smoke Sculptors of Doha

 

 

‘Am I not gorgeous, then?’ Stressing I with a scowl,

grabs my box of tipped Sobraines. Preferring pink

then torching it; kisses smoke rings to impress me.

After one or two nimbus missteps, we count three,

then one and one follows another; she raises drink

sending might’ve been winks or else something foul

in her cornflowers. We watch centres hold then fold,

crushed by currents stronger; artificial cyclones cool

these delicate constructs; smoke rippled confessions

scatter quickly amongst wreaths, to fade and lessen.

Not enough, for fingers lacking rings are for old fools

it seems; she shoves both together, squeezing bold,

forms an overripe stilton scoop of freckled cleavage,

all fragrantly powdered liver spots, a tease of nipple,

not a patch on the mistress I’d left behind to be here

with you now, dear, but I’ll smile, be your sightseer,

answer a morse flash of panties and thigh. ‘Crippled

is what we are,’ she brazen cries, stroking silky edge,

blowing another downs another, bullfrog or bulldog,

something lurid like that, but I’m not touching shots

because I can’t stand head in the morning; and those

battered onion rings do repeat on her in smoke frozen

kisses from home. Together alone and sculpting knots

from air - she wonders what we do here; monologues

made for two. Lost traces scattered over desert sand

blow us both one by one smoke rings across the land.