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

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gods

Tom Waits growls and wails from the living room stereo
I crack a fresh beer and join her on the bed
a freshly-bought anthology of early Bukowski poems sits on the desk
read me something, she says
I read her poetry and drink beer
as she listens with eyes closed
her mouth held in a grin of contentment
I finish a poem and close the book
resting my head back on her thigh
she sighs deeply
I can’t remember, she says, the last time I’ve been this happy
neither can I
is this not Heaven?
are we not gods?