Bukowski

Bukowski, tell me what is wrong.

I stopped existing when I read you

Killed my mind when I met you

It might be an excuse, but you must see

That no one knows me better

Than that bluebird in my heart

You gave me the words

So that I could understand

The deep fluttering, and scraping

Inside the only thing

That mechanically keeps me moving

Yet, I'm told all source of feeling

comes from that very spot

Visibly seeing it pumping

Liquifying my words

But the silence

It's unheard of

I try and try to write

That I end up writing

About you

All because I began

Related

Tried to understand

I did realize

Realize the truth

That I couldn't write worth a damn

it was always you.

Untitled #17

As the deep resounding sound

Concreted between the smallest capillary

As tension rolls down

Dancing with my seahorse

Monogamy theorized

Laying with my concepts

Lacing my prospects

I'm engulfed with my ego

I'm clotting my veins

Which is the only way

We might relate

Since I'm never dying

I'm just submerged in my elements

But someday fire will tangle with water

I might admit that I was absorbed

Into an eluded state of being

Where I no longer

Admit that I heard

Everything said

It isn't as stressful

But I don't speak.

Language of the body

Isn't rare to come by.

Eyes swallowed a moon full

I swore it was the sun

Blinding out the reasons

Faults in me are splitting

Splitting open

Taking toll

Numb knots in my back

This was swallowed whole

The fiery billion of light years

That seem to never pass

that the falling of the masses

Straight past

That golden road

That seduced our

Inner hearts

That may be outward

at last

Untitled #16

Where there were tears

There aren't anymore

As though my existence

Went out the door

Could I even muster a passionate line?

Rhyme and speak of vast entities like time

No more than a line

A sentence I construct

It's the amplified comparison

That I tend to see

The passion that once was me

Concrete is the foundation

That enraptures my mind

The glass ceilings and the advertising signs

Mechanical is the city in my head

Working so that I won't go dead

A battery

a worn out plug

Turning of the wheels

That keep us from

Our rural roots

our primitive prime

The taste of the earth

The taste of time

When the watches were outlandish

The indoors a dread

When I could possibly articulate

All that could be said

But don't worry about my words

my senseless rhymes

I'll perform the mundane tasks

That will subside

Till it is as if I won't go on anymore

Italy, France, the sun

close their doors

So I'm left here wishing

I could take part

being an unclaimed solar system

A piece of art

So all that was expected and all they would need

it a glimpse to see

that this life isn't

What it should be

Blue.

The dead of afternoon with have to wait

The fish get to live another day

Because we aren't going fishing

or disguising ourselves as indians

I'm realizing that all that seemed right

Didn't matter at all

When the birds beckoned

You heard the call

Now, no one is here

To play at all

I'm just clinging to my youth

In the deep recesses of 19

The doctors were called

For my check up

The surgeons were brought

to cut me up

My wrinkled heart

Aged with patience

Drenched in forgiveness

This left the physicians confused

But what could I say?

It was my muse.