Tag: Dirty Realism

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. 

 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.