Tag: Bukowski

We bit into the tender,

                                                              pink flesh

of some exotic fruit.

Its thin, sweet juice dripping

                                                 from our

lips, and I wondered

what it would be like

                                        if he 

bit into me like that.

 I shit my pants once -
 now, hear me out: 
 

 I was eating Chinese,
 a greasy eggroll, 
 so greasy I made
 a comment 
 out loud
 about it. 


 Against my better judgement
 I ate the thing 
 anyway. Hours
 later, I left work
 not thinking
 about that
 fucking
 eggroll.


 I gambled and lost, 
 as they say, and
 I began laughing
 hysterically
 because what
 else can 
 you do
 with your
 pants full of shit
 and a 15 minute 
 ride home? 

Soft covered notebooks

     are the best for

         writing poetry in. 

            They bend under the

               weight of your words, 

                   like hands folded in prayer.

"Oh, thank you God!"
 I breathed with deep 
  gratitude and reverence.

There were two
 cigarettes left in the
  pack instead of one.

If you’re reading this,

and

you think it’s about you.

It probably is.

There is something
unsettling
about rehashing
our past relationship -
all its heartbreaks
and mistakes -
while you
take
a
piss
on a
tree
. 

I have a feeling
the tree
and I
share
similar
sentiments.

The most beautiful

thing I’ve ever seen

was when you came.

Brow furrowed, 

cock in hand, 

cum pooling in my belly button.

And then you’d

kiss me, like you

found water in the desert.

 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 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.