Friday, September 5, 2014

Bukowski’s Birthday 8/16/2014 International House New Orleans part 1


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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