Your mouth comes to me, only your mouth.
comes flying
dragonfly blood flare
that lights my night this ash.
entire sea salt dwelling in her,
the whole sound of the sea,
all foam.
Boca drawn for kisses ,
where tantalizing your tongue sleep.
entire world wine is in your mouth,
all the sin
and all innocence.
Boca shut up and when he says, hidden.
Capable of your mouth the whole truth,
the whole truth and lies.
Laugh your mouth and wake up the day.
(Lightning snow there in your laughter.)
As a herd of ponies run over me
kissing your delicious mouth,
your mouth, butterfly wrong,
your mouth others that is blurred
in my circle night and ash.
Tag Archives: forfatter
John Fante A Sad Flower In The Sand (documentary )
a file cabinet on the east bound state road
six drawers of the universe
filled with life he could not leave behind
twenty year commitment gone,
thick neck and morning lit face
parked up station wagon
silver leaf scars rusting
doors with rattling windows,
behind a marriage gone like perspiration,
a third from the sun creature
pushed into the office
low humbled
shoulders shrugged into body,
grasped that file cabinet
dragged it to the door lifting carpet tiles,
tailgate flipped open,
company property someone shouted
another mentioned 911,
all other lives abandoned
this was all he had,
one last look
eyes like roses on granite,
pulled away
smearing rubber traces,
freeway surrounded by suburban houses
urban outcrops to his canyon
that became a void,
cassette music kept the corpses away
those corpses of the past
that seem to claw and linger,
a siren
was it for him,
tailgate flipped lock busted
as file cabinet slid progressively out,
braking hard
it dropped on blacktop
engine stalled
a dead bronze beetle
car horns swarmed about,
grunting stood upright that grey oblong
last piece of life
scuffed and scraped,
small key on his chain unlocked top drawer
took out a warm shaken bottle of whiskey
and the gun he kept here since his wife
became afraid,
sucked in air
climbed on top and sat crosslegged,
heaven had shadows that would not conceal him
as he waited,
bullhorn call on gentle breeze
curved outline of the day a flat surface,
and a smile so human appeared
Charles Bukowski – Last Straw
Charles Bukowski one of his last readings in 1980
velvetmedia 