Tag: Dirty Realism

Dear Santa, 
      All I want for Christmas is
                 The Collected Works of Charles Bukowski, 
                       A Jesus Christ Superstar tank top
                                   (preferably in Medium)
                          and a guy that will let me fuck him up the ass. 
                                  (also, preferably in Medium)

I like to write in the hazy,
 golden glow of my Edison bulbs. 
  It makes me feel like a real artist.

In reality, I'm just some middle
 aged white bitch with a threadbare
   blanket for a heart.

cry and jerk off

(if that’s your thing).

I feel the water droplets –

some fine as mist,

others like fat tears –

on my lips,

my nipples,

my thighs.

.

And somewhere in that

wall of sound,

I dissolve

between

the

droplets.

When I was 19 I had this 
 boyfriend and he was a little
  strange; a little too in to women's
   silky panties, a little too intellectual.
                                          ya dig?

Anyway, this one time when we
 were fucking, he jumped up on my
  chest and swung his little ass around
   and wanted me to blow him from the back. 

Now, I've seen and done a lot of
 weird and kinky shit since then but, 
  you never forget the first time you see
    the back of someone's ball bag. Magnificent. 

 There's one addiction I have
   and that's living in the
                         past.

 I like to go back in time and
    replay scenes in my head;
      good ones, bad ones,
        they're all the same.

 I like to relive them in great detail,
   slowing down time to capture the specifics
    I missed in those moments the first
                              time around.

 I imagine that they are photographs,
    and imagine the condition they'd be in.
      Some edges worn from constant replay,
        other sticky with the aftermath of love making,
          still others, ripped and pasted together again, their
                             edges burnt in fury. 

There's something soothing 
about running my fingertips
along the edges of a well-loved
                              book. 

Something gratifying in the
softness of something once so precise.

I hope, that in my old age, 
I find the same sweet softness
in myself that I find so valuable
                           in a book.

Shitty poetry

is cowardice.

It tries to beautify

the human condition

to either mask it

or find the beauty

in the awful.

–

It’s shit because

it doesn’t have

the courage

to capture

what’s is

disgusting,

wrong,

depraved,

obscene,

indecent,

traumatic,

and

heartbreaking.

–

It sanitizes life,

stripping it of

the bone and

sinew that

makes us

connect

with

each

other.

–

So go ahead,

write another

poem about

a beautiful

flower

graciously

farting out

pollen

or

some

other

bullshit.

–

I’ll stick to the underbelly.

I was walking along a narrow,

Parisian street; very posh,

the kind with neat hedgerows

that camouflage the iron gate

intended to keep

the riff raff

out.

–

I was having a pleasant

morning stroll, but

then a giant pile

of dog shit

came across

my

path.

–

I paused for a moment,

nibbling on my

chocolate croissant,

mulling over

the turd in

my way

before

continuing

on.

–

Not five steps away,

I beheld what was

very clearly a

skid mark

that repeated

every three

paces

or

so.

–

I quickly put the

pieces together,

some unfortunate

fellow had stepped

in that

shit

not

far

back

–

And had spent

half a mile

trying to

scuff it off

the bottom

of

his

shoe.

–

I gazed at the

last, short

skid shaking

my head.

Surely, this

was a

commentary

on

life.