throughnthrough

It's a Charles Bukowski kind of day

"to the whore who took my poems"

some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; it's stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poem:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be anymore, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be money and whores and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.


"out of the arms..."

out of the arms of one love
and into the arms of another

i have been saved from dying on the cross
by a lady who smokes pot
write songs and stories,
and is much kinder than the last,
much much kinder,
and the sex is just as good or better.

it isn't pleasant to be put on the cross and left there,
it it i much more pleasant to forget a love which didn't
work
as all love
finally doesn't work...

it is much more pleasant to make love
along the shore in Del Mar
in room 42, and afterwards
sitting up in bed
drinking good wine, talking and touching
smoking

listening to the waves...

I have died too many times
believing and waiting, waiting
in a room
staring at a cracked ceiling
waiting for the phone, a letter, a knock, a sound...
going wild inside
while she danced with strangers in nightclubs...

out of the arms of one love,
and into the arms of another

it's not pleasant to die on the cross,
it's much more pleasant hear your name whispered in the dark.