Tag: Bukowski

 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'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.

 I don't edit these, 
      ya know?
  
 They're not supposed 
     to be 
       pretty.
  
    They're supposed
      to be
         real.
  
 To capture a 
     moment 
       in time.
  
 That shit's elusive,
      you gotta nail
        that fucker down,
          before it slips away.

 I was taking
 a piss
 when I thought it,
 so
 please forgive my
 cynicism.


 BUT


 When did a
 dick pic
 become 
 the
 new 
 love 
 poem? 

 Poetry is the 
   spitting out,
    the blood letting of, 
     the vomiting up
      of the poison
       before it
        kills
         the
          heart. 

 There's a spider web
      trailing along the fence,
            visible only because
                  Light shines at the lowest points.
 

Battles for life happen
  in the desert;
    saints, 
     demoniacs, 
       madmen,
                Jesus.


My desert was a 
 shitty community pool,
   brimming with gallons of
    toddler piss
      and
       ruptured
         fart bubbles.


I'd hopped the fence at 4 a.m. 
       fearful I'd skewer my cunt
         and be stuck like that
                 under the humid
                   moonless
                     Florida
                           sky.


I'd jumped in with my, 
  No. 
   His clothes on, 
     like some pathetic
          Ophelia.
            Even my Chuck Taylor's 
               which made me feel so
                    Rock 'n Roll.


I could hear my breathing, 
   my heartbeat;
      In. 
        Thump, thump.
           Out. 
             Thump,  thump. 


And I sent up a prayer to
   whatever
     God was listening. 
       Even if it was 
         nothing at all. 


Just let me die, 
  in this piss 
     filled pool 
       and in the morning some
         poor slob can fish me out.
            Long handled skimmer;
               and me too dead to care about
                    the burden.