The gritty nut chucked raucous
Spring a drum of cocktail dresses for
Bukowski
Flung spirits, the marriage of taunt
legs and crash comments
About preparation and debris
Cold fish sucking the mesh of
Thursday night’s lament
Giving in to the weekend asking
runts to be real
Grab duck feet and hunt like a god
damn veteran for poetry
Playing still guts and nose bleeds
on Tom Waits’ drunk piano
The pony bets and crab struts back
to the betting window
A flag hat with a mortar rim shirt-tail
in the black ink
Hegemony of dirt clumped to a photo
op
International fashion hotel curling masochists
Where are all the fat women?
Hank says, Write because your god
damn have to
Licking rolling papers and mace
Showing up three hours late
Yelling at the first bastard to
complain
Like the ruck sack limp job of too
drunk to fuck
Up right slam it like a knife
Grin like the blood was begging for
a riot
The perfume and the manicure was all
an act
For the moment when somebody yelled
Hell, god damn hell
What are all these pretty faces
mugging skid row for class
All these dead faces wanting to talk
like fine birds
Racing for an address to yell for a
status perch
Ca caw! Ca Choo!
Lying flat so she can take it behind
the stride still crunch
That the spot light of standing was
not as horrendous
As the wrinkles in her slip made her
work
Get me the hell out of here
To a shit motel room and fuck with
the lights off
Like smack damn geniuses
Posing and lonely church of the
venereal
Trying poems about sprinters and
drunks
Running races of who can find the
glutton first
As if the hell in the eight to five
was not begging for a miracle
In a smoky hollow to bend time
backwards
To appreciate disgust and drone on
without scrambling for the mask
The people in their god damn masks
Posing like generals of what the
press are singing
God damn happy birthday to a man who
hated holidays
Said after he died they’d want to
dig him up
Do things and look at me grabbing
Chinaski’s god damn ass
Rumbling and grinning like warm necro-masturbation
For the lovely ones to slurp his
crab rusted ball sack
Mouth it grinning yum tum, slurp!
slurp!
This is a joke, this uniting of dead
souls
Guffawing about hipster jizz mops
and boomer vomit
Wrestling tailor cut jackets and
white linen cunt wraps
The smiles, the grins in an opera of
tarpon cigars
Flopping for preservation on the
wall
Stuff me Hank like a taxidermist wet
dream
Bleed me like a slut felon wandering
at the crass break
The sharks are out begging to be
murdered
Give me a dive bar goldmine and a
PBR
Grin from the bottom of a urinal
Remembering the fun times of reading
Factotum
In the parking lot of an abortion
clinic
Waiting in that window from when she
gives you the call
The juices spent, but the drugs
linger
It takes her an extra hour of phasing
bodies
To funnel out like aliens paying
toll to afternoons of bloodless freedom
Pew-squatters gawk in my rear-view
mirror
Bukowski sits over my steering wheel
Laughing for a nightmare coughing up
pubes
Smoothed out into vomit
She shoots out to leave
Nightingale swarms concrete
The bend in her dress turns a man
out
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