6-1-95 ah, but the smell of it

Siberia, 35,000 feet

Somewhere in the back of my mouth
Is a dark bitter taste
Scorched copper and cast alloy
With a need to be spit on paper

Though my mood and outlook are good
Frowning embers long unstirred
Today all have feminine names
Old blisters on numb fingers rise
Itching liquid pressure pushes my pen
Questions of it