Graphic Noir Poetry

I love noir.

I love the detective, whodunit stories.
I love the intrigue,
the long shadows,
the smoke clouds
and Venetian blinds.

I love the jazz bellowing from pool halls
and the reflective static rain.
I can't get enough of it.

When I leave the office
at the end of a long day at work,
I light it up and breathe it in.
I crack open a can of it when I get home.
I pop some in my mouth as I sit down at my desk
to draw out the seeds from their tough shell.

 And when I reach the fin of the day,
I still feel the ache for a little more
in my dark bones.
I stretch for more,
but the .45 of sleep hits me
and I'm out cold until
I awake in the dark.
Noir.