He writes poetry
sometimes three an hour
he's brilliant!
With metaphors
that bite
leaving no meat
on the bone.
A punch
straight to the chin
with his topics
and in your face
peacock strut.
You could
live and die to his
work.
I use to be his muse
back and forth
we'd send blood
red ink
with the scent of
love,
*** and
longing.
The eyes
which followed
our romance
would gush over
the blaze
beauty
and adoration
laced in each write.
I'd read the ones
blessed for me.
As time
turned to smoke
which hit the
midnight hour.
Then one day
all of it
stopped.
The flowers
went into the grave
our love
turned to
cigarette ash
which flew
straight
off the cherry.
It burned
the tattoos off my body
and he wrote me
one last write.
It was about how he
didn't mourn us.
I
was but a pebble
left on a dock
that he dropped
while walking
away from the empty
wine bottle and
dead June bugs.
He
had
moved on.
While I stayed
writing.
Each one collected dried up dust
left closed and unread by him.
As he lifted skirts and fell in love
or got too drunk and ran off with a
foreigner.
My tears soaked pages
and he wrote them poetry....
It killed parts of me
and some are still dying.
Months now, we're back together.
Only took a plane ticket,
night clubs
and fancy dinners
with white cloth napkins.
There I asked to be his again.
He doesn't write to me
like he use to.
At gunpoint alone
will he pick up the phone
and type
me a quickie.
He tells me,
that he can't Bukowski it up
for me,
as he did for the others.
Their writes were ****, raw
emotional
and love soaked.
Is it wrong for me
to want what they had?
what I use to have?
I surely don't know
and any god of your choosing
hasn't answered me
but one other poet did.
He replied poets can be selfish.
I believe he was speaking about me.
The crickets are chirping
and I finished my cigarette
not holding my breath
for my own
Bukowski poem.