"Cigarette:

Another one of those scratched-out poems, that I wrote a year after the last one. Kind of forlorn and bitter.

Virgin white with burning tip
Glows with passion at my lips
In go my hopes
And out my dreams in a
puff of smoke.
Watch flecks of time drift
away
And faces form and fade
Then crush, and crush
beyond recognition
And leave it
forgotten in its black ash
graveyard.

(Written at 4.53 pm 1st June 1988)