Lights Out by Rachel [2:30m]: Play Now | Play in Popup | Download

I still think on celluloid nothing is sexier
than a noirish silhouette emerging from a barrier
of smoke. Time was the doctors recommended it,
but we’ve moved on. Time was smokers had rights,
special places, allocated seats, their own side;
it was as sociable as beer and skittles or a brew,
in waiting rooms, on trains, what else was their to do?
Time was I saw my future through smoke rings,
measured opportunity on a string of vanishing possibilities,
aah, the magical abacus of youth,
that went up in smoke with the statistical truth,

I recall the allure of embossed insignias -
Embassy, Regals, Royals, Specials;
chose my brand Silk Cut tripped off my tongue,
learned to break the seal and flip the top with one hand;
the gold paper promise, filter tipped seduction,
twenty little wands waiting for the flame.
The enchantment of the Tobaconist’s emporium;
a novelty Kong with fire in his scull,
hand carved pipes and cleaners kids made men from;
collectable cards to stick in a yellowing album.

Now the smokers count down their last days,
dragging out hours, filling ash trays;
the cigarette kiosk is down to the nub of stock -
tens of high tar cancer sticks -
and they’re queuing round the block;
but there’s every kind of scratch card,
and you can Lotto round the clock;
the only vice that’s acceptable now depends on luck.

The tap rooms are all sealed off,
a century of airing wouldn’t be enough;
no more meetings on steps, out back, round corners,
no more tell-tale flips floating in toilets,
no more sitting in open windows contemplating the view,
making time to search grey skies for the smallest chink of blue;
no more time-outs, pauses for reflection,
followed by apologies and shared sticks of gum.

O environmental terrorists,
suspect as an abandoned holdall on a bus,
come and march on number ten
and sing a husky protest song,
with soon to be confiscated lighters raised,
your lit ends the dying embers of an age.
When it’s gone underground, becomes a forbidden pleasure,
when police start raiding homes for airing cupboard treasure,
when Brits start leaving in their droves for Havana;
what will fill all those five minute pauses?
When the smoke fails to clear and falls down exhausted
on our heads, when we’re down to the butt
of the last green dream, might we all wish
for some sweet nicotine.