Blasted Morning.

Those planes hanging from the celestial ceiling,

I flick with my giant finger,

And they swing swung,

Upward careening arc,

Pissing a doodling trail of cloud...that shade of cigarette smoke,

And they swing swung,

Nose diving arc,

To another poised finger-flick,

And so I amuse myself,

Cuddling the impulse to skip all my morning classes.