The yellow straw like bleached hair suitable to her look was just fine ,
The bar was mostly empty , just lost souls, the stale smoke and stale smell of un washed folks staring into empty glasses , waiting to be filled again strangly made me feel welcome.
As I approached the bar the tender asked what's your poison , just a beer and a shot of your cheapest liquor , I savioured both glasses and asked for just one more double of the cheap liquor.
As I drank it down
My cramps now gone , again it was up to my liver .

I spend endless hours
With questions no
Answers,  my brain
Not easing , should
Be this way that way
So confused my heads
Feels  naked unsure
Habit forming mess

I do look at our planet
I also try look after oor garden
Although jackie has made it
The smell from her planting
Our bees are not stressed

So as I look from my window
With a half ****** head
I am generally encouraged
With whatever life gives .me next

I just don't know  what to do with myself,  so I've taken to living in a shell.
The stench is putred
But it's my new crustaion, away from the nation and people who give me unease , I'll stay here alone in this new home,  survive on the slime on the walls just fine, The previous resident left me

I reach out from the waters distilled
A preacher just shot me
My innereds aint thrilled
I put out my hand and reach for my lord
Two 45 bullets
Then he was gone.
Now the pain a feel its working real deep, am bleeding so bad am eternally leaked. I look up above the sun is real low,  i say my fairwells and pleasantly go

My story is without repent
The green of new growth
Puts joy in my otherwise
Dead soul .
The dandelion that serves
Our servants, gets cuts down with haste
It serves us well
Hopefully no ****** beds .

The smell of fresh cut grass sure is nice .
But the  little fellows , the beasties are our rice , no lovely coloured trouperdour , with silver rizla thin wings  ,

Lost souls that we still have to celebrate
Never forgotten,  there waiting in the fly like wings , the curtain open , your with us again

The ***** matter like stepping stones , could be the bairns , the dug or the cat next door,  **** oot working for her first fix , the bairns be fine , there's 3 day auld milk in the fridge . The trick is done the medicine scored , heat up her spoon , slowly dissolved, that brown rush oh powder now makes her feel norm , the endless task only start of the day , she loves her kids really but the kit that she craves , trying her best wondering how she ended up this  way

Love is a strange old thing , I've loved , gave love , had love, accepted love , and thrown it away,  
Hate on the other hand has never come easy , I've tried to hate , but it's not really in me,  I've probably been hated , although I've never really felt it .
Love has always been my over active factor , hate was only ever a minor distraction x

Iook from my window at nothing much , the widow that passes with her tartan trolley is a daily acurence,  her face mostly the same until she returns,  

The ten o'clock people pass in a rush needing there fix well ***** buzz . The empty soul that walks by , no one nos his story seemingly just shy .

The rain falls but thats outside , i look from my Windows am safe in here watching life go by  ,
The widow returns she is now wet and not dry ,her trolley not as full now with no partner a tear in her eye

Your veins
Like old yellow
Doc
marten laces
Your smile
Places we laid in
Your touch
Always the taste of
Sweat on our trade ins

Pleasure was seemingly
Empty embraces
Drowning on our
Over indulgence
Your habit and mine
Distilled of the finest

Sweet dreams
The fix that would fix us
Left you cold
Kissed air to your lungs
Now your gone
I ask for forgiveness

When your faced with no light at the end of the ongoing tunnel of emptiness and the air you breath feels like it's not worth even taking in anymore I understand, the darkness falls more than the slight glimpses of sun shine , I understand.  Your business is finished on this mortal coil . Ifs and buts can never now be explained , we shall just have to be content with the beautiful memories to cherish  x

Well i dont hear the blackbird anymore
She aint speaking to Charlie no more
The bus has left,the poem now bereft, still nirvana.
Featherless

The dreams I have are very rarely shared , as there more that often gone
Before I am fully aware,  
But if your lucky and write one down , a door can open or be slightly ajar, scare you , tear you , open up old scars.
The so called mad ones , the your having a laugh ones , teasing your endorphins,  never last ,
So dream and let it all in , our beautiful brain ,  my enemy,  my friend the maker of cranial scenesThe dreams I have are very rarely shared , as there more that often gone
Before I am fully aware,  
But if your lucky and write one down , a door can open or be slightly ajar, scare you , tear you , open up old scars.
The so called mad ones , the your having a laugh ones , teasing your endorphins,  never last ,
So dream and let it all in , our beautiful brain ,  my enemy,  my friend the maker of cranial scenes

Rain rain , sun burns , wind , the train that might stop at the stop that stops me .
Fun in the heat
Drags , smoking cheap ***** like baccy was just fine , clouds over am nearly smiling again .
Bus to shitsville I don't care , the stops look mostly the same , the shops sell mostly  the same , I never got off the bus , i was going no where and probably back to my illness anyway.
Sunshine again , the humans got of and took in the the same middle town sights, I took more of myself prescriptions  , went to the  toilet on the coach, not  a lot happened  , a slight passing of *****
There now all back on now and the next stop is  definitely get off place , tall trees green grass  high bridges and another small cafe , with lost people just like me x

Brain going at 100
Miles
Per
Hour
Can ya feel the
Need for
Unadulterated
Shock
Therapy
Power
Dull your pain
Girl
Sweet scent
Burning
Flowers

Open
Range boy
Showering
Your
Dreams on another

Pistol wipped
Creaming
Covered
In
Man made leather

I am so lonely
Yet
I
Can't
Be
******
With
Company

Well mr bukowski,  looks books and deadbeat hotel accommodation,  looks like you got a bit more of your literature desolate interpretation . Raising bile over a sink while taking down your own dictation.  Soiled bed sheets , a hung out writers perspiration.  Drip fed camera eyes taking it all in , the day to day , there  daily sins