Charles Bukowski one of his last readings in 1980
Tag Archives: poetry reading
garments that have been pressed
seek her in her grassy tomb
flesh fleece and evening star,
murmurs rise from escaped soul
mouth a shrine to heavens kiss,
text on stone chiseled deep
scythe a scalpel to those around,
to a vow made on cradle key
in binding earth no more a sleep
a million flakes of tempted tremors,
noonday heat rises with the sun,
rise up on quivering breeze
her broken tongue is healing
love a radiant throng
the sick longing eye and dropping of
gossamer veil,
chants names of those exposed
beyond wither,
whole flesh again
i wish back that angry fist
spirits breathe in sensual undulate
on pages of book no longer departed
i have said my piece up to space,
enameled hand paints gallery in the cave
images as she had been growing wild
reaching out,
some say i am a crook
a felon
a murderer
an abuser
LA has no cheap glories for them to remember
i am hunted,
drone circling over head,
zeal of vocal chords will not be heard
counterfeit saints and barefoot dancers
as the snow melts
you open the doorway to onions,
crammed in a pan with cubed steak,
beige dress and apron strings
he saw the wineglass
an ashtray close to full,
he still wondered why she shaved
her pubic hair into a stripe,
going to piss in the small toilet
a room barely used scented of
kerosene and urinals,
you ok she called
peppermint ice cream tones with
hidden expressions,
scratching beard muttered out a reply
zipped up mind still a conflagration of thought,
i wanted to do an english stew
was your day ok
housewife animated advertising jargon
felt like exploding,
the car would still be warm
engine would start quickly,
murmured almost automatic familiarity
those beech tones just as wooden
full of grain and knots,
fifteen years it was comfortable
not likable settled,
he did not question or ask
just lived as he now did with her,
camus could of written a diary with them
in with charlie parker soundtrack,
there was no children
they had not found time,
you could crawl back inside yourself
but that would lead to tears
best left to what was
a grisly fetish
slave and domination
abstract interludes,
snapshots of a smoking buddha
fuck hole sanity,
without that crawling cuckoo
jacket on chair
assembled the winning smile,
she came and kissed
long tongue surrounded his mouth
lips soft journals of praise,
now feeling ok
sat back and spoke as if released
watching her
not knowing her
Dennis Hopper and Rudyard Kiplings -If
Catherine Wagner- This Is A Fucking Poem
the reading poet
behind his book
taking microphone,
spoke
each word lengthening
to a degree
of edgy movement
what seemed so few in words
became eternal,
those who watched
brow moistened by sweat
beneath his fringe
saw an iconic image
poster adorned with Che
on bedroom walls,
fingers found a glass
to sip some wine
for confidence,
feet moving almost pacing
just shuffling,
closer to edge of stage
silence in the darkness,
all held on his voice,
a lithe brunette student
leaped forward
lemon t shirt lifted
baring breasts
with
I Love You
lipstick marked
flashbulb pop
a step back
maybe a stutter of words
faltered only for a beat
smiling continued,
status assured
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