A Prayer for the Old, Mendicant Wretch

She’s sat here for a hundred years,
here, at this bar.
Before it was even built,
before the old jukebox was even installed,
she was here
winking at Johns, and Jims, and asking their story.
Asking them to buy her a round.

67958c8396f86154001cfc9bcbd20cb3

Since before time began, she’s been here.
Many men have known her love,
and her fury.
Many a butcher, tailor, and sailor alike
have kicked her from the bed
in the middle of the night.
They’ve cursed her name, and her craziness,
swore up and down they’d never do this again.

There’s no need to weep for her.
She wastes not a tear for herself,
why should we?
But if you would simply pray,
spare a prayer for the wretch.

O God, if you do exist,
and are indeed merciful,
strike this woman dead, this ageless beauty.
And we will erect a pile of stones
by the jukebox, in her honour.
And each passing sailor will pay respects
she never had the pleasure
of enjoying from the likes of them
and their sort
when she still drew ragged breath
through cracked, painted lips.

BSB

Original artwork by Leszek Harasimowicz
Advertisements

A New World Will Rise

After the bombs, the riots, the protests, and all the rest of the excitement finally subside, all that will remain will be rats, roaches, and ruin.

artlimited_img407260

That, and those winos on the corner.
Still trying to scrape together enough for a bottle
– even though the liquor stores’s gone.

When the shakes from detox subside and clarity returns, they’ll either die drinking gasoline, or they’ll form a new society.

BSB

Just a Bukowski Tonight

let’s cut through it
I’m just a man, nothing more
and the way you did your eyes tonight is sexy

the shape of your face reminds me
of a girl I used to know
someone who used me

not her fault, I deserved it
she was sexy too
so is your face

huntington_drink

I can’t tell the shape of your body
but I’m sure it’s a bit of all right
Fuck

I’m not a poet tonight
I’m just a Bukowski
without the books

just a dirty, old man
with stubble, and resentment
for anyone with anything less
than vagina
or booze
to offer

BSB

Hummingbirds

It just didn’t make sense. Not yet at least.
Questions buzzed his skull like hummingbirds on a vengeful tear, and he had not the answers with which to sate them.
Perhaps if he drank enough, they would come. Perhaps if he sat at the bar long enough, the world would simply move on. Perhaps, he thought and laughed to himself, if frogs didn’t have wings or whatever they used to say. Fuck.

BSB

drunk-inspired-by-egon-schiele-udi-peled

Hunting Ground

01_fantastic_collage_art_douglas_hale-jpg
Lights shine artfully from towers that stab the night sky. That’s the key. The fill light seeps from lamp-posts and taxis and pedestrian cars. The darkness becomes the subject that’s framed in heroic personification.
Alley-bound prowlers become protagonists in the urban ballet of apathy and compassion. Smoke emits from gutters to languish. Ambition puts root down on street-corners, seeking to sprout adventure.

clever-and-meaningful-collage-art-examples-4

The Korean joint in the square vomits superstars into the downtown air. The courthouse leans on Howe, and around happy-go-luckies still desperately preening to the twilight chill.
Everywhere pulses with desperate desire. Everywhere thrusts. Men prowl the street. Women seek the light and warmth. Downtown is darkest jungle.
-BSB

sammy-slabbinck-bridge