Litkicks Message Board Archive

bad night out PT1

Posted to Poetry




Bad night out- Bukowski would be proud

tap water tastes
sweetsweetwarm
at 4 in the morning when
I should be a heavy breathing lump
in the corner of a dark and lonely bed-
the crumpled sheets sings sadly and forever alone

while I think of what a young lady
(such as myself)
SHOULD NOT
be thinking of

Such as:
the gap in the curtains which reveals a sliver
of street where homes squeeze
shoulder to shoulder:
like soldiers fury faced and loose limbed
into domestic battle--

It also reveals:
a sliver of myself,
in my room where
I sometimes may be naked and sometimes maybe clothed,
where I light candles and
pray and
fix my hair--

(It makes me feel uncomfortably real to think of the passing faces contemplating mine.)

I think of
the bottle of vodka
(Holy! Holy!)
drained on the kitchen tiles which has
fuelled me and filled me with
words words words that I cannot find expression for
because there are a thousand things to talk about
but not all of them are worth saying--

Let us together kneel at the alter of conversation and pray we hear something new!

Emily Dickinson would smile and talk of leopards,
but the only one I know is twenty miles up the road
in a piss yellow concrete cell:
I’ll go up and see him one of these days.

mymouthmymouthmymouth is aching
and my jaw is fixed
and there is makeup sliding around my face
which must be removed if I am to
MAINTAIN A FINE COMPLEXION
and become a shining example of womanhood
and clasp the world to my breast and cry
“You are mine!
Now drink the bitter milk of my sorrow.”


and all my horizons
to the north and to the south and to the east and west
are endless living rooms
and empty bottles
and broken toes

and I wonder,

Would I not be as alive still
flat as a rod
in a green and fragrant field
for a thousand years,
pinned down by my own gravity
like a fly to a board,
until death drag me elsewhere?

Oh, to have the sun shine on me,
for just one moment
to bite down hard on love bleeding to sweeten
all these
fucking clubs and
fucking banks and
fucking shit crusting bled-yellow ate awful WORLD--

I think if my sweetest friend who could not be here tonight,
and of the river
which runs dark and endlessly free into the ocean
and meets the sky with its blackness.