they let their sticky humid hands
hold my glitching hologram body
against the scratchy playhouse
walls and drag their clammy
claws where no child should
think to rub all the while
whispering into my vacant ears
how they would beat me and
bite me and cut me and kick me
if anyone were to ever find out
our little game as tapeworm
tears sludged from my sickly
sweet rotting eyesockets and
down my shiny shaking dust
stained cheeks silently over my
cold and closing throat and
when my dad finally ripped the
splintering wooden door across
the sandy shifting floor i was so
pale pink blue i could have been
six hours dead save for my
fracturing porcelain and
plexiglass heart destructive and
bashing and shattering itself
through my frail and brittle
crumbling ribcage whispering to
me how badly my dad would
scream at me for the way we
were playing

The swaying willow I tremble against wares at my frail touch, as a feasting night engulfs my every heaving breath. Death’s narcotics stain my drying lips, his battery acid blood lurches deep within. Eyes so drunk and wasted in my delirium, I arch in silent utterance with soaked face, beaten to ruin and bathed in sweat. So profuse are death’s nails, as his jagged claws vice my throat shut and proceeds to punish. The willows motherly skin catches a broken man. My fading face sludged in midnight and secret poison, collapses to the tree’s aid.

A precious night flickers in earnest, as my legs so shredded to numbness lie idle to my aching lungs. The goddess tree cradling my deteriorating spine and worthless flesh hovers as a spirit dissipating within the mist of a blanketing sky blazoned in studded stars. Her curling hands inch soft and delicately across my broken chest. Each loving finger tip sliding across every cracked rib and shattered muscle, lulls the pain to rest soaked with her motherly essence, as milky dreams flood and cloak the skin.

My dying lips parched of life, and stolen with deaths hands struggle to speak with agony accompanying every cloudy plea. Murky eyes glazed in silicone and oil stare onward into a dazzling frenzy of florescent stars and godly galaxies, dancing for one person. And only one person, the worthless wretch dying beneath a motherly willow. The empty soul slumbering within this rusted machine and in the rush of this chaos, of this leather fitted pain. My soul will
rest in the elegance of Mother Nature’s name.

Dear Bukowski,
I can imagine my embellished rupturing fondest of your works makes you feel sludged with rancor. But I do assure that my adoration only spawns from your purity of disdain and fervor. All things rise together in epic sanctimonious swells. You are not the midwife to poetry nor is poetry the bolstering mother of your life. You are as impenetrably intertwined as the first fickle breath of life writes the verse to our poetic life. While this is true, you acknowledge the infallible doom that consumes our world as people search for definitive answers. As you tackle the affronts of our world you embodied your poetic sinew accepting the fact the world could readily eradicate you with slight cadence alteration of the wind. Bukowski I do not grovel to you, but I will endlessly cherish your paper encased testaments of life. You aren't afraid of painting the inner creasings of your mind you are the midwife and the executioner you are poetry you are life.