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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A Man’s Respect and Admiration

9

I admire the muscles of your arms and the flatness of your stomach
I respect the softness and length of your neck and your legs
I have nothing but respect and admiration for you and your eyes
the bridge of your nose, and cheek-bones
your lips and the metal stud you sport with such class

I would respect you in the morning
In the cold light of tomorrow
with tonight’s make-up faded and smudged
I would admire you as you waited for the bus home
With your panties crumpled and soiled and crammed in your pocket

derrek-gores-recycled-magazines-collage-art-1_2th8t_11446There might be shame creeping at the corners of your face

But don’t let it take you over

You are nothing but beauty and desire

And I have nothing but respect and admiration for you

Even as I came into your mouth

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

Devil’s Elbow

brewing
The night I saw her at The Devil’s Elbow
the tramp in the square’s twilight terrors
split the night’s soft toddle of music from Chambar.
It was the kind of bar, I thought as I trundled past,
where you were supposed to meet someone like her.
And it was one of those nights, too.
A night known to poets and soldiers alike
in troubled nights of pacing paneled floors
or waiting in the barracks.