And the scars tell their stories-
The punk who ashed his blunt
On my back, or
The guy who bit my right *****
So hard it made a hole

So many pounds gained and
Lost and gained
And lost
And nights spent drinking instead
Of sleeping
Smoking and turning my
Insides to Hell

Exacerbated by the bad
Lovers
Are the aches and pains of
My body

Red eyes, dry and
Out of tears
Dark shadows of a
Disease
That he gave me
The best of
The bad lovers

And finally-
A somewhat-desensitized
****
From the worst lover of all

Me.

Are you frightened?
No?
But you're silent
So
I guess it's something else

I like to run my fingertips
Through the sweat
On a new lover's back

I am a child
Finger painting
In your filthy labor

Bukowski's lovers
Liked to squeeze his blackheads
And write him letters

Boys from California
Aren't afraid to moan
During a good ****

I taste the sweat
With my fingers

You did such a good job

The floor is above the ceiling
In a two-story house

The ones we thought looked so cool
When we walked through the models

The desert landscape
In the background

Everything was dead
And we hated it

But the two-story houses
They were cool

You made noise on the floor
And it sounded like the ceiling

Reminded us
Of Grammy's basement

The adults
Made the ceiling thud

As we kids
Played games downstairs

The floor
Is above the ceiling

In a
Two-story house

I'm the bad guy
Because my words
Aren't pretty

And you decide
Who the
Bad guy is

If you're an
Apparition
Then why
Is your ****
So hard?

I wanted to be friends
I wanted to be lovers
But you're so insecure
And dishonest
And fickle

I wanted to be cool
I wanted to be open
But you're so ******* vain
And worrisome
And fickle

I wanted to be stellar
I wanted to be happy
But you're so preoccupied
And ****** up
And fickle

From here to there
And back
In seconds flat

You're just
A dream away
From me

And I hate
Every time
I wake up

I've never been afraid
Of doin' too much
But this boy has me
Thinkin' too much