#bukowki
Your body is a Heavenly crime;
I am caught like a mountain
To the sky
And I am certain of your Angelic presence:
I am absent of myself when your naked
Light forms another plain like
A light of bright silhouettes dancing
At the precipice of eternity,
The night in your hair as
The moonlight dances a seduction
That makes Angels fall.
The nape of your neck to your shoulders
Where I mapped my world in a
Cascade of kisses and I am sure
I saw your wings in the dancing shadows.
A thousand sighs around your
Waist as I trace forever with
My touch,
The tongue as it tastes from
A fountain of your flesh:
Daily I drink of you.
Your thighs like a petrified miracle
Tormenting my eyes,
They close that I might drown
The other senses between them.
A painful tenderness in your body,
I make love to an Angel.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 9:52 AM UTC
*”but as God said, crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.”*
Charles Bukowski
<><>
wit and wisdom, wit and wisdom,
even our sardonic god,
yeah, pro-nouns,
Them/Hymn,
and and his sourpuss sounding humor,
(N.B. humming human humor)
employed by
Mr. Bukowski
smiled
at this
pointy scabbard riposte
Bukowski
as his “stealth” beard~writer,
for when god
wanted to make his point
***** & drily
in a pointy way
~~
and that pointed barb,
a point well taken
directly into into any
egotistical poet’s defibrillating Hamlet heart,’
<>
well **** me,
it it is not a prime example of:
bleak humor, subtlety in a
most conversational style
apparently
god was a complainer too,
but, and, nice!
a pretty good
poet~picker
(pick me! pick me!
oh well, maybe
next time…)
Apr 28
Apr 28, 2026 at 3:19 AM UTC