The government
fell again
it's the second time
this year.

It was corruption
same as last time.
I don't vote
there's no point.

The same 2 parties
have been elected for 50 years
here in Portugal.

It's raining outside
there have been storms
floods on and about
and while I was walking the dog
I noticed a tree fell over.

I wondered
how long it had been there.

Some men
like to say
that taking a ****
is one of the best
feelings a man
can have
that it gives you
pleasure.

I don't know
about all that,
but the log
I just dropped
in the crapper
was a huge relief
both physical
and spiritual.

It's a shame
that when I
read poems
on this website
and I refresh
the page
I don't get
that same relief.

"you know
with a smile like yours
you could knock
ANYONE
off their feet..."

"oh really?
remind me of that
the next time
I'm in a bar fight."

You probably think
that I go around
thinking about how
Bukowski would approach
what I'm trying to say
well, I don't.
Yes, he's my favorite poet
and I respect his work
and the amount of honesty
he puts in his words
but if you think
that I don't know
that he *******
sprinkled on his work
and that he exaggerated
his life style, stories,
poems, novels.
then you haven't
read enough
of his work
(or mine) to know
that me and Charles
are nothing alike
and that makes you
irrelevant.

A sack of flaming dog ****
on someone's
welcome mat
ready to be put out
by the home owner
who will stomp you out
look at their shoes
and look at you
rinse you off
with the backyard hose
and forget that you
ever bothered him in the first place

within a couple of weeks.

And that's what makes you
my eternal enemy
because no one cares
about your opinion
of my work
and how different
and unique it is
from Bukowski's.
And if that's true
then the chances are
no one else will either.
God has doomed me
to be a hell of a writer
who can see right through
your lavender
infused poetry—
Leave it for the tea bags.
That's the prospect
I'll have to live with
as I am right now
at 4 am
while I stare at the walls
my dog twitches
while he sleeps on the floor
and while he dreams
insomnia
keeps me company
while it rains.

Oh, and *******.

I often get in between
of men fighting
in bars or cafés
I try to settle down
the fire in their bellies
I step in
Hold them
by the shoulder
and say something
of the sorts:

"Common guys,
you just had a little
much to drink.
we're all friends,
right?"

I've caught
some stray jabs
in the past
so now,
I'm quick on my feet
to step back
and raise my hands
showing I'm not
down for a brawl
not with drunks
at least.

"Get your hands
off my ******* neck!"

Said the last one
I tried to calm down.
He was drunk
and wanted to play
the drums by force.
There was
a karaoke band playing
and the drummer
was a woman
She called
men to the stage
I didn't hear her call
all I saw a
drunk Nordic tall and fatman
about to ruin
everyone's evening.

All of this
was none of my business
My woman scolds me
for getting
in the middle of things
that I might get hurt
and she might get hurt
and she has kids to take care of
and that she brought me
to that bar
and if we got hurt
it would make it her responsibility
all of which I completely dismissed
I didn't think that
it was that serious.

There was this other time
I was walking my dog
a black medium
schnauzer who
enjoyed resting
on the top of my
living room table.
I would walk him
everyday but this day
it was a different day
I walked by this white car
those white fancy cars
that you know are expensive
even if you are like me
and don't understand much
about cars.

"Help me!"
a man's voice yelled
from inside the tainted windows.
He sounded desperate
almost as if he had
a knife up to his throat.
"What's your problem
don't be stupid."
another deep voice said
a baritone's voice
he sounded stern and calm
it felt like controlled violence
like he had been holding
the knife for a while.

I didn't really care
if there was a knife involved
but it sounded serious
life or death
and I chose life
not of the man
who needed help
not of the one
who held the knife
but my own.
A classic case
of none of my business.
So, I just walked past the car
with my dog
didn't even look at the windows
and the dog finished
I went back home.
I backtracked
the car no longer there
I got to the building
climbed the stairs
and with each step
the idea of not caring
settled in my belly
and it didn't make me sick
and that bothers me
because it should've.
I got home
looked outside
my balcony
no trace of the white car.
I told my father about it
he told me it was probably
a gay couple
being a little too rough.

My friend Lontra
was about to jaywalk
but he chickened out
once he saw the incoming bus.
I didn't. I knew I had time
so I ran. I was almost
on the other side
when I tripped
on a bump in the concrete road
I fell. Lontra said
that I fell in slow motion
as he held his head in shock.
He said I ran like a fatman
I fell like a fatman
and I rolled around as one as well.
Everyone in the bus looked at me
he said as soon as
the fatman hit the ground
they all looked to the right.
I got up from my ***
and limped towards some steps
sat down holding my elbow
that I used to break my fall
while he laughed uncontrollably
he said there was a lady
walking next to him
and she just stared at me
on the floor
and then she saw him laughing
so she laughed as well
like she was waiting for
permission.
I'm not a bad sport.
I was laughing since
the moment I realized
that the bus didn't hit me.
We went to McDonald's after
I ate my meal
without washing
my hands.

I'm bored.
I want to hit up
people I don't
care about
and go have a beer
and loads of cigarettes
hold each other's shoulders
in a group in some bar
and laugh like
we are real friends
even though
I've quit
that life.

I'm just bored
and that's
what bored man do.
They go out
and pretend that life
is better than it actually is
and we intoxicate
our selves with drink
and smoke
and plenty of other things.

But instead
I lay in bed
reading a book
I'm half way through
it's good
but it's not enough.
My feet stink
I refuse to get up
and shower
I'll just change socks,
my teeth feel off
from the coke I drank
and I haven't brushed them
since yesterday,
and my poems
hit like heavy hitters
would back in the day
where boxing wasn't
rigged
or ran by punks
with YouTube channels.

*******.
What boredom
makes a man do
in times of need.
Maybe
I should take
a walk
but I'll sit here
marinate on my own
fight against addiction
lack of connection
and poor hygiene.

I'll invite my dog up to bed
and let him lay on me
while he stares at the wall
and I'll stay bored
and write a poem
that won't hit like the rest
but as least
will serve
a purpose
as my girl
waxes her legs
and waits for me
to say something.

I want to write
a poem
so here I am
doing it
even though
I have nothing
to write about
My head's
a bit fuzzy
I woke up
around 4 pm.

My girl wants to
read me a poem
she thinks I'll
like it.
"Not now, I'm writing."
"Ok."
and as the world
burns to ashes
outside
losing weight
becomes
just as realistic
as going outside
and running
without someone
chasing me with a knife.

I tap my belly
twice.
I've decided—
I'll keep Steven.
He's a good boy
who has tantrums
but a couple
farts here and there
usually settle him.

My joints and my ***
hurt when I get up
I'm getting too heavy
for my knees
and the chairs
aren't comfortable
enough.

This poem has
an thing to it
I don't know what
it feels good
and right
it feels like Steven.

I can hear
my father arguing
with my little sister
over homework
and that doesn't.

There is
a pressure plate
pressing on my head
and I can hear
my skull crack
the more they argue
but it never
pops it
it just presses
and presses
never landing
the killing blow.

the homework
questions begin
"Is freedom
good or bad?"
"Good."
"is censorship's
something
present in
dictatorship
or democracy?"
"I don't know
what censorship is."
I get up
from my bed
my joints
don't hurt
I grab the door ****
and shut my
bedroom door.

There's your answer.

I spent the weekend
away
when I returned
there was—
a new fridge,
microwave,
shelves,
and a bench.

it seems like
everything moves forward
when I'm not around

even the roaches—
****** off.

I got a knock
at the door
at 3 am.
I open it
there he is.

"let me in
there's pigs
outside"

I let him in
and take a good look.
He usually
isn't like this:
like he owes
a debt to the world
and the earth
came to collect
her cash with Interest.

"What did you do?"
"I was smoking ***
and the cops ran after me."
"Do you think I'm stupid?"
"what do you mean?"
"Dude, you smell
like gun powder."

He knew I knew
We waited 2 hours.
The cops were gone.
"Here have this ski-mask."
"Thanks."

He has a kid
and wife now
not everyone's
that lucky
to live that long.
good for you
old sport.

You eat what I write.
There's a piece
of my poems
with tomato
sauce on your
shirt.

Then you
burp
with satisfaction.
after, you
wipe your face
on a paper napkin,
and talk about it
with your friends
over the
dinner table.

Then you stir your
wine and make
small talk
about my
personal life
as if you were
a close friend of mine,
and I hate you
for it.

Alone in a dark room at 2 am
I think about how I fake
or force most of my emotions.
That might explain
why I'm so socially awkward
and why I tell girls
and my coworkers
and my dead friends
to *******.
all of them are fools
myself included.

Alone in a dark room at 2 am
I think about how I try to fit in
how I want to belong
how I want to be one of the boys
how I want to be loved
how I want to love
how I want to be human
and feel human
(in all ways except physical)
and how much easier life would be
if I had just been born
away from my own thoughts.

Alone in a dark room at 2 am
I think how I forgot
most of this poem
that I wrote down in my head
while I was working
because I can multi-task
but it doesn't matter now
I've got most of it down
I think.

Alone in a dark room at 2 am
I think about all the diagnosis
that have been thrown at my face
Bipolar
Schyzofrenic
Schizoid
and depressed.
At this point I just consider it
name calling
but I have much a better diagnosis
that requires no anti depressants
or anti psychotics
I've self diagnose
as an *******.

Alone in a dark room at 2 a.m
I think about how
the men in white cloaks
tell me how I shouldn't abuse
Alchool
Cigarrettes
Drugs
and that I should take my medicine.
Little do they know
that all of the above
I consider medicine
and that I do abuse all of them
except my pills.

Alone in a dark room at 2 a.m
I think about how I fantasize
about death and suicide.
That lady death is my mistress
one shy kiss away
from setting me free
from all this boring routine
that we call life
work, relationships, eating
*******, sleeping, talking
and living
all of which
I do very little of.

Alone in a dark room at 2 a.m
I wonder how much better
life would be
for those around me
if I had just been locked up
in some loony bin
and stayed there
for the rest of my days.
In a way
I'm locked up in this madhouse
that some call
my mind.

Alone in a dark room at 2 a.m
I just
write
and
breath
and
think
and
finish
this
poem.

I just got up
from sitting
on my ***
for too long,
my right foot
and whole leg
are numb,
and I'm limping
towards the bathroom
like I'm wearing
clown shoes.

Oh, so you're laughing
at my numbness,
and pain.

You can be cruel?
No, you're not cruel.
You're just like
a dog from hell(!)

I don't write about you
as often
as you'd like me to
there's a good reason
for that.

Most of the times
when I write
I'm *******
at something
so I just
let it out.

Poems
drip
out of my chin
when I'm
too drunk
on my emotions
or have
my head
too far
up my own
***.

You, love
most of the times
bring me peace
and quiet
even if at times
I have to
punch myself
on the chin
over an argument
I'll never win.

You,
are the reason
I don't take
any pictures
at all.

I'd rather—
You live
in my heart
and memory
for as long
as God
allows me
to have them.

Do you think
that I don't love you
even for
a second?

Woman
when we're
on the phone
I always
tell you
when I'm
sitting
on the crapper.

If that's not love
I don't know
what is.

My father has a temper
one day he gave me—
a old school beating.

He stripped me down
to my boxers
hit me with a belt
until it broke.

then he switched
to a wooden spoon
he said —
"take your hands out of the way
or I'll break your fingers".
So, I did.

Then, he hit me with his hands
until he couldn't no more,
he stopped.

afterwards he went
towards the kitchen
I heard him pant
tired from beating a 15 year old
tirelessly.

He filled up a glass of water
drank it. And came back.
he finished what he started
and punched me twice in the face
like a man holding a grudge.

All of this because
I was skipping school.

But, I can't say he is a bad man.
He is the same man who taught me
everything I know
who cared for me and raised me
the same man —
who for years I barely saw
because he worked abroad in Spain
or he had two jobs
and worked 16 hours or more.

I was bruised red
all over that day
I hid under the covers
of my bed.

My mother got home
asked what happened
and only then I cried
I had so much pain
I couldn't move.

the blue bedroom walls
now, turned white
from shock.

only the straw chandelier
made sense
the light coming out of it
made a pattern
tiny shadow squares
a cell.

The next day I wore
a sleeveless shirt to school
it was dark blue
to show off the dark purple bruises
dark wide circle and rectangles
from the belt and the spoon
I matched the outfit.

and to show
how I was strong
how I was still standing.

What do they call those shirts
wife beaters?
Ironic.

Anyway,
My father later
when I was older
said he cried more than me
that day in his car

Somehow—
I doubt it.