Portrait of the Artist as a Noble Gas

Allow me to disrobe
myself, unclothe myself
here before you, to show
you my self for what it
really is … just this—
a puff of smoke balled up
inside some solid thing,
a bit of gas backed up
inside some bloke's blocked ass,
usually leaking
slowly, filling the room
with a rotten egg smell
until contact with you,
a lit match, a question
asked through the open mouth
of a gun's gaped barrel—
you the spark, I the gas
that explodes the bullet
from its tunnel, into
the light of day: up, up
and away.