vagary

i always want a shower

after reading bukowski.

that, or curse,

spit 

or fuck.

there is something 

terribly beautiful

about an ugly man

who knows

his face looks like

it's been chewed.

sad 

old 

brutes

longing for tenderness,

studying the dimples

along their finger streaked

walls at two

or three o'clock

in the morning, or afternoon

thinking,

"my god, 

she makes it

so easy to love.

she does impossible things,

she sucks

the life from me,

but inside her, 

i am alive,"

and they resent her

for loving them,

these are the men

for whom i bend.

fucking terrible drunks.

they acquired

the taste 

for thick women

only after

their fat gloves had

coursed a bottle's

warp.

they taste of ash

and barrel.

he'd lick his lips

and say,
"i love the taste

of alcohol

from someone

else's mouth"

and i'd think of spitting.

i'd suck clean the sugar

to rot my teeth to root:

i'd say, "you're a coward"

and he'd smile, sympathetically.

he'd pat me on the head

then ass.

soon i'd undress

for those black tar eyes

and he'd fuck me like

he hated me,

because we both know

he does.

disgusting men

i'd let cut me

if dared,

to watch something pretty

grow frightened

and bleed,

these are the men

who cost me sleep.