Bukowski prowls around the room
like ancient moonlight…
Strange guttural sounds
quivering to everything she touches.
Eyes are slivers, green and dangerous,
tail wagging and high,
royalty in heat,
softness spilling like sunshine,
because she wants something she can't speak,
something that breath itself desires.
When biology fades,
she becomes one with the shadows.
Silent. Sharp.
An orphan gliding through her living room streets.
Untouchable. Semi-feral.
Still beautiful. Still Bukowski.
A heartbeat you can't hold.
Men and women echo her melody.
Smiles like tragedy and comedy masks.
Hands slick with the con game,
deadly coveting because the world craves and hungers.
The touch is a facade.
Desire slices the shape of everything with a pulse
and leaves only specters
where hearts should have been.