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mesentery.i get the same feeling looking
at you as i do dissecting cats
but it's ok
i know it just means
love.

i want to be more in love than
the man who first wrote about true love;

i want it to swallow my soul
and i don't want to mind;

i want it to kill me
because sometimes
i think i should be dead
and this would be a beautiful way to go -

dying for someone better
than myself, unselfish until
realised it's the most selfish
of selfish things,
to love & be loved.

it's sickening.

black-tar-lungs,
that kind of sickening.

emphysematic
paroxysms, that kind of sickening.

the shape of your lips,
in all their beauty:
that kind of

&
the therapy office.today you told me a million times
i was worth more than i thought,
the lines on my arms meant anxiety,
& drugs should ease me out.

you said my body was cold
& my head was achy,
& not to show my bones
through slinkier
sheaths of skin.

it was like you loved me,
only i knew better.

it was then
you told me my goals were
too lofty & i was driving myself
to sickness.

here is where i hoped
to prove you wrong,
to be thinner than the spaces
between a boy's fingers
(the spaces meant for me)
to be two numbers instead of
three,
to wear convex patterns
beneath my skin to tent it into
bone-tipped mountains.

what i mean i
pages upon pages uponsunday nights spent burning stray thoughts
and watching their furs singe
claims of temporary insanity and bats
dancing all naked over my bed
i am gone i am gone you are gone where have you gone

papier mache stretched tight cross my skin
begging for breaks begging for blood
coffee brewed strong enough to jumpstart the dead
ive been awake all morning ive been watching
the second hand on the clock
and it just laughs and laughs and laughs
in every moment it spends motionless
it just laughs and laughs and laughs and laughs and

boy you are no longer the worst sleeper i know and
it pains me so it pains me so
i am stuck with the sam
there aren't enough metaphorsi palely exist
in a recumbent
slumber,
full of cleopatra's majesty
and an empty stomach
i drum my head
off the backboard of my bed
and listen to the pretty sounds it makes

my aggression is worn
like ground coffee on my body,
taking it out with burning fingers
all over my frozen skin until i
become honey, bees flocking to my coat

i spill you, a cracked
china cup of black tea and cream,
over the sides
of the waterfall
my frame quakes
with every rumble
of my stomach
watch my silly bones
tremble in fear and winds,
silent rib cage dances
into stronger spotlights
to be discovered by the talent agency
attached to th
the atlantic was born todayoh,
it's raining very hard,
stones on a tin-can roof,
and my lips become the
shape of valley mouths,
fluttering in smiles
and antagonistic frowns,
as i remember dragging my
watering feet to
the balcony to let you
hear the rain i heard
while you were
gone.
it's just like musicsternum
black
and blue

bruises
heavy hands
balled into
heavy fists
beating into
heavy hearts

it feels like
music,
exactly like
music
the rhythm,
the dirt
the way it
only sometimes
will hurt
but when it does

it
just
goes
numb.
turmoilmy soul looks like paper
white and pale
a husk of skin
shins on pavement.

i am worn.
i want to change the letters
tripping over my tongue.
i feel my sleeves
grow heavy
like water in a vase
and sink me lower
into the mud.

this is what i get
for ignoring
the beauty of my bones,
the beauty lying hidden
underneath my skin.

the monster is furious.

the jealousy is less like an emotion
and more like the thickest swamp
gluing legs to the floor
and threatening to swallow me whole.
maybe it shows
as my bones resurface,
the beauty closer to my skin,
the only way to touch you.

food becomes an emotion,
fat is a feeling,
weak-sk
tomastomás
man at the counter,
feels the steel rim under his
coffee-brown fingernails
for an hour every day while he
stains his cup with his dirty mouth;

wore his wedding ring from 1973 until
yesterday afternoon after seeing
his wife kissing another man
with tongue
he put his hand on her shoulder and
roughly turned her, she
just told him how
he can never remember the divorce
in 1974, please won't you remove your
ring, you're making my husband
feel uncomfortable;

used to write poetry on the backs of
napkins at the diner with the red stools,
wrote them for the pretty girls he
always wanted to kiss and turn their
blonde
a desperate bout of melodyas the sun melts into streaked paint,
as your hands trail listlessly along my spine,
as the paper frays like twine,
i can remember your heart.

the kind of beautiful
that only exists at night
fire of skin and prowling cats
friction of hot tires
and mattresses creaking
under the weight of the love
that is made over it.

and i,
well,
i,
i think
of your skin still
sticking to mine
like sugar in
sensuous
flames.

the heat is quick and
i'm morning sick,
i am your flower and
won't my petals please
fall away?

the wind
a sighing of a
heavy breast.

i will love you
in the morning when
the fog paints
windows with
hoary br
rundown motelMY HEART CAN NEVER BE
A SUITABLE HOME FOR YOU.

THE WALLS ARE SUNKEN
LIKE BROKEN SHIPS OR
SKINNY CHEEKS;

THE HOLLOWS QUIVER
WITH THE BODIES OF
RATS AND INSECTS,
WAITING FOR THE FALSE SENSE
OF SECURITY PRECEDING
PRETTY SLEEP
TO SKIRT ACROSS YOUR
BROWS BEFORE THEY
FOLLOW SUIT.

(I MISS YOU.)

MY HEART IS FILTH.
MUCK AND MIRE SEEP THROUGH
ITS CRACKS.
IT IS NOT YOUR HOME.

WALLOWING SELF-MISERY
SWALLOWING YOUR SMILE,
WHERE IS OUR SUNSHINE
WHERE IS OUR BEAUTY
WHERE ARE YOU WHEN
WHERE AM I.

THE FIRE IS ROARING
LEONINE AND ALWAYS TOO,
TOO LOUD.

I NEVER ASKED YOU TO GO.

(I MISS YOU.)

I WILL NEVER NOT SHAKE
WHEN I HEAR YOU
putting you placesi want to call you sweetie
i don't know i ever will,
because you're always just
curling up like cat smoke,
concentric in the
cavity of your chest;
a heart

you're a nail through
my thumb, but it's okay because
blood is exciting and it
makes me want to kiss you a little bit
and sometime it reminds me how
i hate the way i
love you to pieces,
i mean really i just want to
love you to whole

i'm sorry
i'm still throwing my head back
but i'm sorry
you can watch the line of my neck
in slow motion if you want, and
i think i'm still screaming like
the night i caught my suit of skin on fire

i'll cut you open
on my bedroom floor
if i could be who you want,i've figured you out, as you
are drawing letters for
any girl who touches your heart
but not inside your thigh;
a letter for a pair of breasts made for
every twist of your alphabet

a scattering of curved lines or straw bones
arrange into meanings,
condensing people into a swift penstroke
for under a heartbeat.

you cannot bear to etch a full name,
you cannot cry with seven letters
beneath your breath,
you cannot pretend a letter stands for
something real, just the same as you
cannot pretend it does not.

i have you drawn in black and white-
crying in corners,
watching men, women, and children
pass as you wish they were your
all angles and godmy head -
crying a baby's hello
swallowing,
throwing itself
out with
the bath water -

everything is all
angles and god;
you will watch as i flounder
in the murky streets

one raindrop
turns to
ten
times ten
and ten
and ten
and ten

the sky is beginning
to cry again,
it comes in
through my
window

and i
shut it out,

i
shut
it
out.
i am wasted , loveit isn't that i'm not enough
it's that i'm too much
rolling hills, salient where
silence should be,
valleys deep like gorges
and rocky like crags.

if i whittle my waist
to a point,
a narrow tip sharp
and lusting for blood,
would i be worthy?
would my heart expound
and writhe in revelations,
would we become the married summer
with starry thieves masking our
love?

this is when i hurl myself into
desperate blue strobes
and feel the bass line drilling the
too-hidden, secret and avian
bones with the bird behind their
cage. this is when i feel hot
hands pressing over cold hips,
when i feel warm for the first time
in what's
reasons not to ask me to leavethe way in which i want you is not quiet.  it is the constant tug at the hem of my skirt,
the begging child gobbling a litany with hungry little teeth and spewing thickly over every please-please-please.
the words are littering the floor and i sigh as i sweep them up into the dustbin to empty with a thump outside my window.

it is a nervous little owl, anxious hoots biting its beak and eyes
the size of egypt swallowing every piece of you they can find;
lustful eyes, pale like the moon in its overbearing white-moth slumber, worn in the shape of
oversized glasses with a horned rim.

it is the trumpeter swan's call, the winter-ivory pa
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More from *ohsostarryeyed

the passage of 'you'when i step alone
into my shower,
it's you.

it's you when
i hear the folsom prison blues
and when i drink bitter coffee-

it isn't you
when i sleep in white sheets
and patterned pillows,
a hand in mine
and soft cyrillic letters
to wake me.

it's you in my closet
hidden somewhere in the depths,
it's you in my short hair,
it's you in the photos of ireland
taken by my friends-

but it's not you
when these lips grace my ears
with words softer than you
ever knew,
when these lips grace my face
in softer ways than you
ever knew,
when these lips grace my heart
in softer ways than you
had hardened it.

i am trying to be
a better person
and he is help
there are monsters in my head.there are monsters in my head.
they scream and rattle their bars,
fingers round my bones
to shake the cage.

i cannot sleep.

no amount of blood spilled
or water thrown down
the throat the way the camera
and knife
will in the morning
can quiet them.

i wonder if the doctors will see the monsters,
or if they have learned to keep quiet
and still in the light;
to pretend they are not there
until no one is around to see them;

and regardless of their sessility,
regardless of their muteness,
the moment the darkness comes,
i see their faces
again.
100 theme challenge001. morals
there is nothing wrong with leaving behind politeness for happiness and we could all do to remember.

002. parade
the aches in my skin parade within my bones like a sin.

003. prayers
i say your name over and over like it is a prayer to keep my head above water.

004. clear skies
just because things are cloudy doesn't mean there's no sun behind them.

005. happy birthday
i give you a feminine loofa, funny boxers, and your favourite candy- i want this to show you i love you even though i'm broke.

006. apples
my white flesh browns under my thin skin- i am rotting to my core.

007. letters
hours of letters written and phone calls si
five down .collablove, tell me -
tell me i see the future and you
will wind up well alone;
i don't want you with anyone,
especially me.

i pull your air into my lungs,
an influenza in every syllable of
breath. and i am a cluster of hills
across your face, the reason you
said you didn't believe in
wearing sandals in july.

i keep track of time
in terms of crossword puzzles,
sundays especially difficult
because i used to pray like god listened
to my repents and hopes then.
you would take my unfinished columns
and fill them in with a different pen colour
and that was how i knew things were
wrong.

and there was never any bitterness
to it either, the passing hand
vasha ptichkai want you to read me stories,
the very same ones
as i wrap you into,
catch you in their bindings
and smell you,
clean and summer,
inside the pages.

standing in your shower,
i wear the bodywash
that is a signature of yours,
foreign on my skin.
sometimes you are there with me,
and we are children again
as we splash water
on one another's naked bodies.

i am turning you into
a bigger reader,
a braver hero,
a stronger soul;

you tell me that
you put your phone down
and buckle your seatbelt
when you get behind the wheel
because you imagine my face
if you told me you didn't.

i want to be something new for you.
a better lover,
a happier smile,
th

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bukowski

:iconohsostarryeyed:

i wanna be a real poet,
live by the rules of bukowski

& no mama,
i can't get out of bed
not before the sun
sits high in the noon's time

& no mama,
my grammar school rules
are gonna go to waste

& no mama,
i can't use tall letters
when henry chinaski himself
leaves everything
low,
feeling low,
lying low

i don't know any girls
named jane
i don't drink beer
or sleep with
innumerable women who
just fuck me & run

but i wanna be a
real poet
the kind who fights
wee people in bars & loses
and hurts when
the beautiful suicides
are the only ones we see

i'd drink my pains away
but the last thing i need is
another glass widening
my waist,

i'd sleep with a million men
but the last thing i need is
another heart to ache,

i'd bet on the horses
but the last thing i need is
another way to have
loved & lost.
:iconohsostarryeyed:
no pretty language for
no pretty man,
the shittiest ode the myth
of charles bukowski has ever seen.
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:iconstephenburger:
*stephenburger Dec 10, 2012  Professional Traditional Artist
I very much like this. Well done!

If you get a chance, please check out the comic I am working on called TALK! --> [link] It is a book of conversations I am self-publishing early next year - Support it by 'liking' the page (if you do, of course!)

Cheers,
Stephen
Reply
:iconwinterkate:
~winterkate Oct 20, 2012  Student Writer
Wow. I feel like you really hit your stride about midway through, but goddamn I love the line about beautiful suicides.
Reply
:iconohsostarryeyed:
*ohsostarryeyed Oct 23, 2012
it's a reference to some of his work :] thank you!
Reply
:iconwinterkate:
~winterkate Oct 27, 2012  Student Writer
You're really welcome!
Reply
:iconpengirl100and2:
~pengirl100and2 Oct 20, 2012   Writer
The problem with lovely poetry is it hits square in the chest and leaves me breathless, and then I can't leave the well thought comment of praise and critique this deserves.
Reply
:iconohsostarryeyed:
*ohsostarryeyed Nov 25, 2012
i have no problem with that haha thank you so much!
Reply
:iconpengirl100and2:
~pengirl100and2 Nov 26, 2012   Writer
you're very welcome :)
Reply
:iconmozartsnemesis:
~MozartsNemesis Oct 15, 2012
So I was reading over this again, and it hit me in the chest. This is lovely.. so wonderful.

"but i wanna be a
real poet
the kind who fights
wee people in bars & loses
and hurts when
the beautiful suicides
are the only ones we see"

This is my favorite stanza.. I also hurt when I see beautiful suicides. Amazing.
Reply
:iconohsostarryeyed:
*ohsostarryeyed Oct 23, 2012
i have a bunch of references to his poems in that stanza, so i'm glad you liked it!
Reply
:iconmarieholly:
~MarieHolly Sep 18, 2012
"the shittiest ode the myth
of charles bukowski has ever seen."

^ I disagree :heart:
Reply
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