Tough Guy Poetry
I didn't get to sleep,
reading Ferlinghetti
and Bukowski, feeling that my love
was like two-buck chuck:
a dog from hell
that pissed upon the silks!
Silks! especially the moiré!
or watered silks and wall hangings...
watered! - or damask for grander things...
before the common and mundane
availibility of cotton
spelled silken doom...and washable chintz!
I forgot the dog
and dreamed of Brighton Pavilion,
ladies in silk, French and Egyptian;
the smell of silk against
skin that salivates an odor
of erotic chinoiserie!
My mind is not Frisco Bay,
nor the poet's urban garrett;
it's absinthe in my body's pockets,
the sphinx's head and clawed feet
like mahogany and rosewood
for the Prince Regent !
notes:
trying to write like Bukowski - or Ferlinghetti -
I end up dreaming of Regency furniture...
silks, carved sphinxes, tables with lions' feet.
"absinthe in my body's pockets" may be
a sweat from love's exertion...maybe not.
3 comments:
Oh, so grande, so perfect for my birthday post (ha, being a Leo, of course it is all about me)! I wrote a paper on Bukowski I loved him so much though I could never write like him. We drink two-buck chuck (sorry), and it just seems this is full of references I can connect with, including absinthe (though I've never tasted it . . . but stories). Thank you. (smile)
I'm glad you like it. August is never a cruel month, it leaves that to April and October.
Absinthe...I don't know. It is very mysterious...and causes one to lose one's mind - so I've heard.
Yet it is so familiar, we carry it within our "pockets".
Happy Birthday, Ruth.
Thank you. Happy Birthday to you too.
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