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living in suburbia

in ranch style houses

on manicured lawns with lawn jockeys

black as coal: lighting their way

racist pigs, pretending their not

arguing every evening over martinis

about infidelities

while children hide in closets

fearful of being beaten

womanizing husbands, handsome and muscular

trashy housewives, too much makeup and breasts too big

children cruel, torturing small animals

dirty faces and snotty noses

go to church on Sunday

together

god will forgive your sins

return to your lives

cheating

lying

screaming

fighting

all hidden behind their domestic bliss

<a href=”http://readwritepoem.org”><img src=”http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3173/2908425234_55d973018e_o.jpg” border=”0″></a>

Can you live like that

(without love)

 

no  show of affection

no laughter

no smiles

without warm caresses

without soft kisses

without friendship

only meaningless sex

with people you don’t know

disease circulating in your veins

warning!

you might die

all alone with nobody at your side

what happened to you?

did you miss something as a child?

when did that occur?

out of the womb

on to the cold concrete

fear of not being warm

into a world as callous as you

on to the train

in a world full of hate

(this is my #3 poem. I am not quite ready to leave my poet. The original follows this one)

hello, how are you?

this fear of being what it is:
dead.

at least it is not out on the street, she
is careful to stay indoors, she is
pasty mad and sits alone before her tv sets,
her live full of canned, mutilated laughter.

her ideal neighborhood
of parked cars
of little green lawns
of little homes
the little doors that open and close
as her relatives visit
throughout the holidays
the doors closing
behind the dying who die so slowly
behind the dead who are still alive
in her quiet average neighborhood
of winding streets
of agony
of confusion
of horror
of fear
of ignorance.

dogs standing behind fences.

men silent at the windows.

///

hello, how are you?

this fear of being what they are:
dead.

at least they are not out on the street, they
are careful to stay indoors, those
pasty mad who sit alone before their tv sets,
their lives full of canned, mutilated laughter.

their ideal neighborhood
of parked cars
of little green lawns
of little homes
the little doors that open and close
as their relatives visit
throughout the holidays
the doors closing
behind the dying who die so slowly
behind the dead who are still alive
in your quiet average neighborhood
of winding streets
of agony
of confusion
of horror
of fear
of ignorance.

a dog standing behind a fence.

a man silent at the window.

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(This is the one I changed followed by the original)

Rest merry gentlemen and rest merry whores and let lamplights light

me under the elm tree

me busting my ass at a handpress

me milking a cow with a milking machine

trick is to

blackjack parish priest and

burn his wallet and perfumed candy and asleep before 10 p.m.

my hands wrinkle fast

my heart will stop

my eyes will look like shots of glue

and about all I can preserve is a rose between paper

or the works of Homer so your main history is now

///

Rest you merry gentlemen and rest you merry whores and let the lamplights light

You under the elm tree

You busting your ass at a handpress

You milking a cow without a milking machine

the trick is to

blackjack the parish priest and

burn his wallet and perfumed candy

and be asleep before 10 p.m.

You see the hands wrinkle fast

the heart will stop

the eyes will look like shots

of glue and about all you can preserve is a rose between paper

Or the works of Homer so our

main history is now

This is from Charles Bukowski’s manuscripts  (challenge #1 Fall in love with a poet)

(‘This is the first one that I changed a little following is the original)

How long does love stay green?

(as long as the money lasts)

when  women open doors and walk out in rain at 3 a.m.

like an ape trying to relocate his last stool

when sleeping wants to kill himself

and  someone as rich as you

mounts a machine gun on their roof

to point at you as you search in garbage cans

–hello rocks in the sun

–how long does love stay green?

She’ll tell you what the queen

wore to the opera or who has won

twenty baseball games

as your heart lies by a dead chicken

outside a Spanish whorehouse

as pain screams in cemetery bones

she says

–where did my big dream go?

–hello to the rocks in her shoes

——

How long does love stay green?

(as long as the money lasts)

when men open doors and walk out into the rain at 3 a.m.

like apes trying to relocate their last stool

when sleep wants to kill itself

and somebody richer than you

mounts a machine gun upon his roof

to point at you as you search garbage cans

I say

–hello to rocks in the sun

–how long does love stay green?

they’ll tell you what the queen

wore at the opera or who won

twenty baseball games

as your heart lies next to a

dead chicken

outside of a Spanish whorehouse

as the pain screams in your cemetary bones

I say

–where did the big dream go?

–hello to rocks in my shoes

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Time slips away so quickly
Time flies by in a blink

Time
Space
Irrelevant

Time runs by us
Gone

Time
Emptiness
Irrelevant

Time is gone now
Goodbye

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