Friday, November 3, 2017

     The Smell of Success

Bukowski burps out poems
like prednisone powered hiccups. Cigarette 
ash smears the Remington's eroded
keys. Stale beer stench,
crap gin and sweat floods his room 
hidden at the bitter end of a greasy 
hall. 

As yellowed fingers pound and drum away,
suddenly his eyes glaze, he's become
a crooning Vatican castrato. An angelic chorus
of staccatoed bliss, of tender albino flesh
re-make him. 

My bad dream is I’ll never mate a muse
as fragrant, flush with life, with sacred
intoxication, as profligate or dangerous as his....

My fear though, is I may indeed 
sniff her late one eve,
erotic heat hovering

mischievously above
my pen or keyboard,

and when and if
so ecstatically
invaded, so poetically
overtaken, who then

(I find myself pondering) 

would mow the crabgrass,

spank the brats,

scare their chums,

clip these coupons,

raise the dead, or

pay that goddamn
garbage bill?

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