the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.
there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.
nobody ever finds
the one.
the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill
nothing else
fills. -Charles Bukowski
Bone bruised elbows and Dixie cup shots
Dim rooms bursting with
Girls in short dresses
And friends fixated on them
Yelling over a rappers roar
Dressed up heartache
the theme was lost
Somewhere between raccoons and aliens
A pensive stupor
Shifting between
Potential lovers or
Good friends.
Perspective's hinges
Meticulous indifference
strategy
panic
longing veils the eyes with moonshine
calloused hands are tough to shake
snow-born blond with a southern spit
