The Poet

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neglected of youth, high-heeled
whores strut their asses through
the crowded maze of the
barroom haze. cobwebs
of agony hang in the air
as the jukebox serenades
the lonesome. a fistfight detonates
between two drunks at the end
of the bar. everybody is sitting
around waiting to die as
intoxicated laughter
throws a guise over the
end of the world.

and there he is, death dripping
from eyelids, he takes a last-call
pull from the bottle, throws his coat on,
lights a half-smoked cigar & stumbles
out into the doveless night. the warm glow
from a lamppost throws shadows of serpents
against battered cobblestones. vagrants sip
whiskey under boxed shelters as they hold out
calloused hands for the gamble. the
moonlight careens up the seedy path
as the poet ambles towards the
dark den of his solitude. Continue reading

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untrodden

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there are no paths
that lead to truth.
that’s the splendor
and beauty of it. truth has
no set path. no absolute.
truth is alive, living,
breathing, meandering
through our cells, penetrating
our dreams. it doesn’t rest under
the roofs of mosques,
or temples
or churches.
it doesn’t die
in bitter hearts
or suffocate
in closed minds.
the truth is alive,
chaotically so,
and will continue to
thrive, whether we
want it to or not.
let it fill you with
vigor and passion
let it lead you
to say yes to it all.

Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec

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Moonlit nights in Paris,
the artist, tiny, staggering through
streets, dragging along
an easel
he was to set up
in the Parisian brothels
to bring a light of humanity
to these gals of the night
that was rarely seen.

The wind, tainted
with the vices of the gutter,
splashed his face as he made his way.

And the thieves, pimps and
street-walkers lurked at all hours
of the seedy night.

The artist strolled on through.

Saturated with drink, 4 day
binge, no sleep
living out the fate that he’d excepted
long ago.

His paintings captured
the bohemian nights in Paris,
the afterhours
of the most essential era for art
and artists.

The glory of 19th century Paris,
he captured beautifully.

But the whores, alcohol
and madness
finally got the best of
this postimpressionist
genius.

As it usually does.

Dying in the arms of his mother
at only 36 years old
under the blazing sun.

The sun,
which he’d spent most
of his
short days
days cursing.

glory, gone

i sniffed at the smell of glory today
it found me by surprise.
once I acknowledged it
it faded into the sky
forever away
from where i was.
i find that nothing has changed
i’m still sitting in my garage
at midnight, smoking cigars
and sipping whiskey
trying to figure out something
to write. the agony still lurks
just like desire
just like the owl
in the backyard oak
just like the chaos
i seem to adore
just like the moonlight
over the graveyard
just like tomorrow’s hangover
that’ll surely greet me
i accept it all

the quest

sun shot its laser rays through blinds
lying lifeless on bed
awakened and shaken,
hesitating to open bruised eyes
still addicted to the dark side
yearning for the light
and a clear head
caught between a rock and revolution
trying to persuade
a whole generation
that their evolution
is not complete
rather than waving
the flag of defeat
he chips away at the concrete
around the hearts of the sheep
with a soul and mind on fire
trying to eliminate desire
knowing he’ll never retire
in this quest.

Dreamlessly

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By Charles Bukowski:

old grey-haired waitresses
in cafes at night
have given it up,
and as i walk down sidewalks of
light and look into windows
of nursing homes
I can see that it is no longer
with them.
I see people sitting on park benches
and i can see by the way they
sit and look
that it is gone.

I see people driving cars
and I see by the way
they drive their cars
that they neither love nor are
loved –
nor do they consider
sex. it is all forgotten
like an old movie.

I see people in department stores and
supermarkets
walking down aisles
buying things
and i can see by the way their clothing
fits them and by the way they walk
and by their faces and their eyes
that they care for nothing
and that nothing cares
for them.

I see a hundred people a day
who have given up
entirely.

if I go to the racetrack
or a sporting event
I can see thousands
that feel for nothing or
no one
and get no feeling
back.

everywhere I see those who
crave nothing but
food, shelter, and
clothing; they concentrate
on that,
dreamlessly

I do not understand why these people do not
vanish
I do not understand why these people do not
expire
why the clouds
do not murder them
or why the dogs
do not murder them
or why the flowers and the children
do not murder them,
I do not understand.

I suppose they are murdered
yet i can’t adjust to the
fact of them
because they are so many.

each day,
each night,
there are more of them
in the subways and
in the buildings and
in the parks

they feel no terror
at not loving
or at not
being loved

so many many many
of my fellow

creatures

my only luxury

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she thought that I could keep her from harm
resting her head upon my tattooed arm,
I knew that any moment
that her raging torment
would pop off like a screaming alarm.
she knew my problems and I knew hers,
i drank too much, she smoked too much,
i read too much, she bled too much.
she was never meant to be here,
neither was I, and we knew that fate
intervened in our unforeseen state.
so hell, we took advantage of what
was not meant to be,
and we threw our souls
eagerly into this harmony.
this is the world man, this is
how its supposed to be.
because the most alive are ones
who live unguarded, who roll with it,
who heave their hearts into whatever
chaos life throws on their porch.
even in the dreadful storm
they still carry the torch.
one night, with gleaming
lights over Manhattan,
she came in, sexy, scheming,
i swore i was dreaming,
lingerie, heels, sexiness unearthed.
she gave me that damn look,
as she pulled off my tie, shirt, belt.
i mistook her fear as love.
god, there’s such beauty
in her fucking insanity.
she got up on top of me
rotating them hips so I can see,
then the mysterious look,
frantic eyes of an absolutist
while the knife slowly
melted into my throat.
somehow, i knew it man.
i knew this beautiful catastrophe
that I’d thrown my whole self into
would be the utter death of me.
this was my only luxury.