Charles Bukowski

ink stained finger pedigree

kiss and whisper in her ear

hair dyed nocturnal sheen,

this clown without sanity

also had no morality,

for him love was the crazy light

of all dead angels,

his heart navigated slums of heaven,

babylon a drink to satisfy

and of those there where many,

at the door watched as she

burned on the brazier of sweetness,

leaving behind

he would go now and

make seven nymphs homeless,

in his mind words dwell,

a mirrors reflection

shows glance of vain apathy

downstairs and out

he went walking brisk

on soft sprung sidewalk,

there will come a last day

where pages no longer speak,

she was far behind

no turning back,

sorrow clung to his own breasts form

blood of his lust drained

pausing to turn into the bar

instead of heading home

will wait on tonight

Stand Up and Wanting

laughter detached from beauty

many faces appreciated,

her own humor made her belong

in this bar,

this night,

eighty five people with warm beer

saw her on the stage

not silent they talked,

she became part of their life,

jokes about mundanity,

the effectiveness of marriage,

up there she was not sorry,

a guitarist joined her sometimes,

whiskey added fire to the jokes

with political edge,

never a pawn

she had an opinion,

yet behind the facade of comic pride

she screamed,

her bust under black sequin bodice

grasped and strangled her heart,

unless she did something wrong

caught up their in the light

amp resounding her voice,

she would continue to the end

and after last light

clicked off,

would find her own sorrow and silence