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Bukow
13th November 02, 10:32 PM
and post a couple of my things here...
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62nd poem

"I like your shirt," the waitress says
Via enchanting, carameled lips
With too much tempting, taunting tongue
Pink flavor mesmerizing
tantalizing
"I like your ass, a lot!" I think
"Your face, your legs, your hard and soft belly,
and your arms Ė those arms meant to be savored!"
(even with the hackneyed tribal band)
"Oh, but canít forget,
I do like your shirt,
but I like your pants better
the way they so snugly hug your ass
and trace your thighs
when you walk."
I watch her closely
Pouring my coffee
Bringing my food
Cashing my bill
Later I will think of her
Maybe even on the stairmaster
More likely, though, when Iím home alone
Iíll reconstruct her personae
Align her points in all her glory
And bathe in the wine of her every nuance
Her sweaty smells, her Long Island talk, the tiny hairs on her honey-brown arms
In her tight pants
And out of them
In the cafť and in my bed
On my floor, in my face
and my face on her
Come on, waitress
Give me a taste
And Iíll promise you whatever I can
Anything I can
To touch your flesh
To grope that ass
To possess that face
To make you mine for a little while
"I like your shirt," the waitress claims
"Thanks a lot," I say.

Bukow
13th November 02, 10:35 PM
I Just Realized You Were Dead

When I walked into that bar
that seedy hovel
of filth
and violence
the shouts
craze
and country music
werenít as loud
as the sound of
your face

So I came to you
and tried to say
something
but nothing would bring
that look
I needed

No recognition
Of the ride we road
the lust and the pain and
the love once felt
together
we spent our youths on
each other
Riding
all the way
through the
good
and bad.
we stretched it
from the dark
mean streets
of this murderous city
to our final days
under
the Hollywood sun

The vacant stare,
the vapid smile
no memories,
just nothing
buried in it
at all.

Nikalos
14th November 02, 05:08 PM
/yawn, test