Never read Bukowski before bed. You'll dream of shitty apartments, empty, rattling wine bottles, and scabby hookers. Then, mid dream, you'll realize you're sweating buckets between your ass cheeks.
I don't care if the verses don't beat, equal in length, rhyme or have a pattern. What I care about is that there's truth in them, that you can spy my soul hidden between the lines.
I asked Jesus to take the pain away but he said he could only heal corruption. Love, no matter how much it hurts isn't corruption. So, I guess I gotta wait this shit out.
I never noticed before, but there's a maple tree just outside my window. I can see it as I soak in water that's so hot my skin should melt. Its blood red leaves are nearly gone, limbs bending in the breeze and I wonder what what it must feel like to be stripped bare and have the wind rip through me. I imagine it would slip through the spaces between my ribs, maybe curl its way around my age widened hips, creep in where my eyes would have been, or that space between my teeth that's always sensitive.
Remember that time, about 15 years ago, when we were driving down some Texan backroad? It started with you wriggling against the seat but soon turned into a desperate scratching. "What the hell is wrong with you?" I shouted, "Fucking itching won't go away!" It took some moments, but then I remembered. Two days before, when we were in the shower, I shaved your ass-cheeks while you washed your face. 15 years later, and I'm still laughing.
I wanted to paint a picture of your eyes, see. One that captured all the deep blue and the light blue fibers of your iris. I wanted to paint your pupil huge, you know, like a quarter, or a moon, or a god-damn Buick. Swollen, like when you would whisper you loved me and I thought I could tell you weren't lying. Engorged, so large I could see myself in them and I was a different person, content with the mundane. Those pupils would swallow me, devour me whole; flesh, bones. Everything. And then you blinked.
He smelled like home to a girl who never felt that way about anywhere. The deep green of the forest; sunlit leaves, crushed pine needles, and damp, rotting logs. The warm, fresh earth after it rains; buried seeds, their tender shoots, and mossy crevices between stones. And the slight spice of musk; a loamy buck, the creeping fox and the parched air of owl's wings.
You were a dazzling neon light in a seedy dive bar and, like a moth, I was compelled by your fire. But just like every bewildered moth, I was consumed by the searing blaze in what was a sizzle of bad decisions.
Woke up to find that my cheek fits perfectly in the gentle curve of your neck where you smell of Mambo and hot stones.
I'm sitting here reading other poets' lines about heartbreak. I'm appalled, exasperated, frustrated. What is this need to make everything whimsical? 'Heart break is like a wilting flower, delicate in its pain.' No it's fucking not. Heartbreak is like a fucking shotgun blast to your abdomen that sprays your guts on the floor, leaving you to bleed out for days, weeks, months, years.