The figure in a white
see-through robe
walking seductively across
the bedroom
is a sweet
Pacific breeze
upon my *****

Dream of a warm embrace
during a storm that sweeps across a great ocean
and the arms holding you
make you feel safe
and safe is love
and love is life
that no cyclone
can stop

kung fu
feng shui
wing nut
shang hai
chow mein
chop suey

fu manchu to you, too

None of us write poetry
for anyone else to read
we write it to purge the pain
personal and private
others could like it
but that doesn't matter
then again,
neither does it matter
if we write the poem at all

Fk Charles Bukowski
harder than he fked himself.

My father was not a sailor
My mother was not a saint
Each one was just a failure
But what they were I ain't

Speckled, soiled and hurt
Their dying was long and hard
Each a droning but dull alert
Which still keeps me on guard

I am not a sailor
I don't believe in any saint
I am not a tailor
I'm a walking, talking complaint

If you see me on the street, shake your head
If you get no response, I'm already dead

Belladonna
gotta wan 'er
'donna wan 'er
smooth iguana
majiuana
lips nirvana
call me bwana
Belladonna
god i wan 'er
wanna 'donna