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

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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

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Hunting Ground

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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.

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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

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One

The cross I bear across my brow for thee
Makes up the cloth which sees me through the storm
And in the faintest moments of my glee
Adds paint and pain-ed pallor to my form
The world around makes light of who we are
It mocks the very essence of the soul
In pale parade perfection moves to mar
And chip away the fragments from the whole
Through all the sorry, soulless, crass attacks
The beauty beyond sight beckons my ear
To bend toward a sound I hope attracts
A lovely new existence to me here
Can love exist in places such as this?
Or am I doomed to roam bereft of bliss?