Hatred of wanting and the hell
always begins with the wanting
That is where the armies start with
the wanting
The drum beat bullets of men hiding
behind awful banners
Of country or book or corporate
ticker immune and not afraid
Lost fear because the wanting unifies
soulless ghosts trying to harvest a soul
Insatiable and genius foaming out
eyeballs caulked with violence
Getting on sex and booze of all
flavors to make sleep come with the dark
No matter the hour the whores are
asking for sleep
No matter the wanting the hate is
buried in the crotches of men
Watching her, wanting her, thinking
about taking her
They all think they have a chance
for that one cunt
Like the sun was enough for all men
No matter how much love she makes
the world will keep asking
Until the sun bursts the life beyond
the life in her
Is pulsing for the squadron of
penises out in the smut chairs
To destroy her like lions that do
nothing, hunt nothing, but other lions
Sporting to let the lionesses feed
them
Wanting only to knock the other
muscle out the line for the privilege
To talk but he does not say he just
takes
Because the worthy man takes the
evening
Doesn’t pose or strut, he doesn’t
give a fuck what she thinks
He just beats there like animal
taking, taking, taking
He doesn’t even want her; there are
a thousand hers
And she knows it
She knows she is just meat for the
night and wants to be more
For Bukowski and feels like wanting
and everything is lost in the wanting
Because it makes her flinch, adjust
her face for the lion, purses her lips
As she is about to be devoured and
spread for nothing but a greased pipe
To slander the machinations of the
hoard always wanting
Over the classical opera of day jobs
and beer bottles
Flung out windows for the listeners
to slap commentary
To the awe of the circus freak
writing and writing
Hating himself for being a phony
Letting the wanting leaking inside
his adjustment
In how does this sound or will the
audience ear up
Pay homage to his slut poetry
prancing
He hates them all like a firing
range line them up
Battle bullets punk-pluck every
fucker
Wiping their noses with his shit
spread everywhere
In grunt words of nonsense schooled
in posing angel hells
Wandering down into his ears
When he rents sanity at the
typewriter page after page out of him
Because writers understand writers
having to get it out
Like this in a room fool of ogling
strangers ogling bar glasses
And the crotches of folded panties
bunched in corners
Writers hate writers more than any
type of asshole
Because writers can point out the
hypocrisy
The bastards are the most dangerous
of all the fuckers
So we hate you like we hate
ourselves
Because writers know there is no way
out
Not if you’re any good or horrible
because
The hell is that you wanted to be
found
Writers write to be found; the
wanting is in the documentation
The preserved history of the moment
tattled on and yelled aloft
For the fucker vultures to fund
bellied up to the bar
Crying like a divorced son of a
bitch pining
About the pussy that gives him hell
and the child-support
And the ass that cost him the
ability to write about anything else
For those years and he drinks to her
every night for the goddess she is
Muse above muses for the isolation
like food to gnaw at the bone
The fucker could finally eat like
steak every night
Some good god damn meat raw real
hell
Other writers could jerk off at the
blackness of his darkness
That this ex-wife was pure Midas
inspiration
Like a terrorist attack or child
molestation
The good shit, the pure cocaine from
the mountain
Where they don’t ask; they just
kidnap your fucking family
Bound you up in a shed like a South
American guerilla vacation
Penned in a wooden pit, stuck like a
pig
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