By Alan McCormick & Jonny Voss.
He’s lived a long old life, puff, puff, puff, stub out all the fags he’s smoked on top of each other and they’d build thirty charred eiffels, five twin towers and form a ladder up to the stars. But each one has been different, a moment of escape, a whiff of magic, a discreet drop of poison administered here and there.
She cups his lung and he squeezes out a breath, dragging, scraping, draining a way through and out. He coughs. Grey clouds. Yellow moon. Sulphur pools. The rooster carries his collarbone to hang in the sky. He inhales his last, bonfire, crackle and spit. An ashtray collects the ash. His smoke circles, his grey lips smile, and he’s ready to take his first step.
