Imagining a Life with Her

She tells me she wants to be a baker,
that it’s been her dream since she was young.
I taste the cakes she’s prepared
and I’ll admit – she is good.
Her dream is to open a shop
and delight the city’s sweet-seekers.

I taste my new acquaintance’s sugary confection
and imagine a life with her…

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Wake in the late morning
to the smell of baking.
Roll over, and gather the pages from last night
scribbled on loose notebook paper.
Take them to the sun room, to read over.
She walks in, with a fragrant tray
still hot from the oven.
A kiss on the cheek turns my face to her.
Her smile is bright as morning sun.
“How’s the book coming, sweetie?”
she says. She lifts the steaming tray of goodies.
“Here, try one. I want to know what you think?”

“Sure,” I say, taking a cookie
and holding up the pages,
“as long as you don’t mind some reading.”

I eat the cookie
but she doesn’t read my pages
until we finish making love
and brew some coffee.

She tells me she’s an artist.
She’s always wanted to illustrate children’s books.
Asks me if, maybe someday,
she could illustrate a book of mine.
I look at her smile, glowing in the light
of a blue, neon beer sign,
and think; Shit, why not?

I brain-storm ideas
for a modern children’s fiction classic,
and imagine a life with her…

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We wake begrudgingly, together,
late in the day, in our studio.
We kick aside the empty bottle of wine
and decide to paint our bodies
while the drunk still lingers.
Paint is smeared across our naked bodies
and we and roll over blank canvases
layed across the hardwood.
Nude, exhausted, I detach
and light the day’s first cigarette
and brew coffee.
Nude, she finishes her newest piece
with delicate brush-strokes,
as I watch her, and create poetry.
We stand together, nude,
admiring our new creation.
I read her the poetry I wrote,
and we crack another bottle of wine.

I imagine my life
together, with another.
For some reason,
the dream never manifests.
Damn life, damn reason,
damn the year, and
damn the season.
Maybe we could be happy
if we wait, if we work,
if we try, if we give up,
if we move,
if we just stay here.

The truth is
I’m tired to death.
And want you to be tired too.
You, the beautiful face
that peers at me through candle-light.
We could both go to bed together
with a bottle and a dream,
and sleep in late
for the rest of our lives.

BSB

 

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I Hear You, My Darling

You stand there,
doddling like a child in the corner,
the baby blues flickering on your baby face.
You mischievous kitten.
I’ve figured you out.
You’re a full woman in the mere guise of a child.

Ron Hicks

Your stumped limbs,
plumped with near-distant infant fat
belies your true nature,
rich with amorous stirs,
which initially make me feel
perverted.But the
curve of your backside
that spells the most perfect
“S” I’ve ever seen,
and the kinky flames
that rage behind your baby-blues
make me feel like a man
on top of his game.
The question remains…

Will I do it tonight?
Will I sink into that well,
once more,
poisoned as I know it to be?

I’m not sure.

Loneliness
in the very heart of the crowd
I can see written long-hand on your cheeks,
like the stains of a tear-inspiring love song.

I hear your lips say;
“Take me away,”
while your eyes whimper something like;
“Lay with me in paradise.”

run away

I swear that I can see and hear
your delicate, smooth fingers utter
in equally smooth and delicate tones;
“Come with me, fast. Let’s never look back,”
as they’re worn down
by the nervous erosion
of your restless mouth.

“How long will you wait?”
ask your arms, hips, and toes,
“before you kidnap me?
Can’t you see that
I’m starving in a wasteland?
Take me away!
Club me in the dead of night,
and steal me away to a life without borders.
A life hard, and fast,
and riding into the wind, and spray, and sun.
When will you stop carrying on this ridiculous ruse,
cast your mask to the curb-side,
grab me by the wrist,
and whisk me off to the hills already?”

Fabian Perez

The music has turned sober.
All of our minds are cursed with a chance to think clearly.
She is going home with him.
Everyone here is tired to death of forced conversation.
And,
I need to start walking.

BSB

Original artwork by
Ron Hicks
&
Fabian Perez

Rust

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if my hands were the limbs of my mind
I would understand women

if my tongue could speak the words
and emotion
lapped from your cunt
then I would know you inside out

if you could hold my cock
like something more than a toy
maybe we could be happy

perhaps
if we try

we can be people to one another
instead of locks, and keys,
and rust in-between

-BSB

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Last Call’s Final, Parting Gut-punch

edvardmunch-jealousyi1896the mirror behind the bottles behind the bar
offer a view of your girl’s face as she endures your embrace
and keeps an eye on me, waiting for a time when he will die
of exhaustion, or shame, or by her hand
and we can be together

toss your hair, dance for me
care not for his suit, his hair
his car waiting in the parking lot

you prefer the chase
the danger
and strange, new pleasure

suit yourself for now, as you will
you will never know, nor will I
and together we shall be
unfamiliar, unaquainted, forever

BSB

edvard-munch-jealousy-3

Who Couldn’t Love That Smile?

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His cheekbones pronounced, his slight bristle of stubble, his brows immaculately-shaped, he positively glowed from the picture frame.
He could have modeled. Perhaps not on the runway, for his demeanor was too humble, too approachable. He lacked the stark, cold angularity usually reserved for runway types – those exiguous flesh mannequins, paid to shut up and look fierce, or bored, or merely apathetic.
But he could be useful on some poster or brochure selling a car, or a vacation, or a cup of coffee.
Did his girlfriend ever say things like, “You have such a nice face, you should be on television?”
Did he give modeling a go?
Was he chewed up and spit out by the heartless fashion industry?
Did he write postcards from a broken-down Los Angeles motel room?
Or was he simply happy being who he was? A bank manager, newly promoted, newly moved into a two-bedroom, Yaletown address, newly murdered?

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

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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