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
The streets are empty and still,
between the red time,
then start again.
Trucks bouncing by,
cars to work, work.
The farms are disappearing as I noticed
years ago along this old route.
Now the farms lie beneath
hotels, office complexes whose beauty
is beyond the senses
in some economic realm fortified
by the delusions of power and inequity.
But the farms are lying beneath
and large poisonous plants
fusing the electrical circuits beneath.
No there’s no death to evil,
it rises again, now in war, now in bucks
now in land, now in power,
it rises up forever until the end,
when the light may intercede and remain.
Seek refuge from the fantasy
into one other fantasy.
We see violence done on subways on streets
but we don’t see violence done
in a new class system or economic twist.
Does it murder just as well?
Nothing can be done.
It will go on and on
until the intercessions of the sun.
Everything else has failed, and will,
but the innocence of youth
and the momentum of dawn.
As May was opening the rosebuds,
elder and lilac beginning to bloom,
it was time for the mare to foal.
She’d rest herself, or hobble lazily
after the boy who sang as he led her
to pasture, wading through the meadowflowers.
They wandered back at dusk, bone-tired,
the moon perched on a blue shoulder of sky.
Then the mare lay down,
sweating and trembling, on her straw in the stable.
The drowsy, heavy-bellied cows
surrounded her, waiting, watching, snuffing.
Later, when even the hay slept
and the shaft of the Plough pointed South,
the foal was born. Hours the mare
spent licking the foal with its glue-blind eyes.
And the foal slept at her side,
a heap of feathers ripped from a bed.
Straw never spread as soft as this.
Milk or snow never slept like a foal.
Dawn bounced up in a bright red hat,
waved at the world and skipped away.
Up staggered the foal,
its hooves were jelly – knots of foam.
Then day sniffed with its blue nose
through the open stable window, and found them –
the foal nuzzling its mother,
velvet fumbling for her milk.
Then all the trees were talking at once,
chickens scrabbled in the yard,
like golden flowers
envy withered the last stars.
Charles Bukowski one of his last readings in 1980
fruit of pomona
yielding to reach and touch ,
never to be split between friends and lovers
that homer once wrote of them,
slight tug separation from tree
a tree that would outlive the fingers
among the branches,
each gathered in wicker basket
green and red flesh perfumed
one of softer flesh skin slipped off
pulled open juice spilled nested in pulp
not seed but foetal form,
an emerging conterpart who would grow
in truth,
licking away textured pale pulp revealing all
form grew and writhed,
this was nothing that pliny had written of or the
romans seen yet she knew,
as a woman in her warm spelt bosom,
the coming thunder was starting with overlaid clouds
to raise it’s crescendo,
female foetus of of rockland maine
with mind akin would grow so well,
her fingers had known degas face,
eyes seen the waves of suppression ,
in this basket another voice grew
oil impressionism
captured scene milhaud tones
creation and completion
the veritable truth,
that fruit of pomona spoke so well
no more a planet of empty milk and bread
in the spirit of the gods
many would red lip sacrifice
banner to trumpet call
it was settled now
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
velvetmedia 