Phimosis Postibi

conduit shrugs

from sleepy wither

morning scrapes

itself off the night

with bruised studded clouds

I will shower

soaps lather run

looming down

at the hoodless one

shaped contour of

male tissue erectile

veined with coming age

desensitized to cotton touch

hidden behind

clasp of gideon sundbuck

soft towel rub

once retreated

so nobody will know

it’s a shame

that this dome

quite architectural

with narrow eye

can shine and shimmer

in fluid moments

of interaction

but for now

the day pale clad

has begun

me as of today

Eggs….

I broke an egg

soft boiled

watched the yolk

spread

in the whorehouse

of my soul

i thought

of my yolk

spread

over your breast

as I kneel

and urge

over

your sleeping

shape

my mess

your anger

limp disaster hung

itself

on my brittle facade

you left

exit by the door

i now look at

knowing

this egg will

not taste any better

 

Winning Bukowski Tweet #1: wine by Chris Lawrence

Thank you so much Bukowski On Wry and all your readers , all the best

Charles Bukowski – The House

THE HOUSE
from “All’s Normal Here” – 1985

They are building a house
half a block down
and I sit up here
with the shades down
listening to the sounds,
the hammers pounding in nails,
thack thack thack thack,
and then I hear birds,
and thack thack thack,
and I go to bed,
I pull the covers to my throat;
they have been building this house
for a month, and soon it will have
its people…sleeping, eating,
loving, moving around,
but somehow
now
it is not right,
there seems a madness,
men walk on top with nails
in their mouths
and I read about Castro and Cuba,
and at night I walk by
and the ribs of the house show
and inside I can see cats walking
the way cats walk,
and then a boy rides by on a bicycle
and still the house is not done
and in the morning the men
will be back
walking around on the house
with their hammers,
and it seems people should not build houses
anymore,
it seems people should not get married
anymore,
it seems people should stop working
and sit in small rooms
on 2nd floors
under electric lights without shades;
it seems there is a lot to forget
and a lot not to do,
and in drugstores, markets, bars,
the people are tired, they do not want
to move, and I stand there at night
and look through this house and the
house does not want to be built;
through its sides I can see the purple hills
and the first lights of evening,
and it is cold
and I button my coat
and I stand there looking through the house
and the cats stop and look at me
until I am embarrased
and move North up the sidewalk
where I will buy
cigarettes and beer
and return to my room.

Charles Bukowski's home DeLongpre Avenue

Charles Bukowski’s home DeLongpre Avenue

Winter Mocked

from silken intervals of flesh

parting inevitable,

a vagrant blossom falls

upon a dusted road

the pink of a dying star

upon clad earth

brings no consolation

to icicles hung over

shallow grave,

filling the path to April

free winds follow

a creeping slope and

linger there,

can we remember the shade

and tulip bloom

cautious burning of butterfly

wing,

storms come in colored coats

indifferent to yesterday

pleasure not yet spoiled,

long fingers spread

over frozen labyrinths

iced buds squoze upon

the branches,

waxwing bows it’s head

brought by music

of a new chorus

winter will not be forgotten

dverselogo

Raw Oxidized


Oxidized bent into alternate shape

steel formed and defined

by us one fall,

the old green blanket

dragged from Buick trunk,

beyond the sink and realtor hours,

arranged a promise to meet,

gold on fingers no restraint,

cool mist spread

as if to muffle those who knew us,

temptations touch was strong,

discreet parked,

sparse tree’s that would be acquainted

with color again in spring,

tremors and kisses,

only sounds our clothes

and hands as they spoke in undressing,

flesh tinted by greasy window light,

all yearning was concentrated

upon each each other not in love

but temptation and lust,

to know each other briefly

not eternally,

hearts cluttered with other worlds

of length and importance,

this was an only moment,

for her it would evaporate,

for me as i stand

then bow touching bent steel,

i remember that truly

wanting something unable to attain,

love had been a receding  tide

and new island found

but that too had been consumed and lost,

and i was left with a memory

beneath graying folds of hair