Bukowski Girl

sometimes I don’t wash my hair

only read Bukowski in bed.

you should shower, you sneered

your lips avoiding the top of my head.

as if there’s anything more than

the last of the rum,

my weeping uterine lining,

that stupid somber song you hum.


girl, hate those dirty black hands

how you smear ink on the sheets.

oh and I hate erasures like

I hate typos and models and cheats

and all the polished perfection

just out of my reach.

be pretty or dye trying

that’s all they ever preach.

dirty scalp, tresses like uncut lawn

the mirror keeps cracking

but it won’t break til you’re gone.

(no I won’t break til you’re gone.)

and oh well, its just as well

I’m not the kinda girl you’d take home,

tear-stained and booze-scented,

laughing while you whisper, “ohm”.


oh and I know the sound you make

when you find my hair clogging the drain,

stuck to your stubble, a ghost you can’t shake.

and sometimes I don’t know what to seek

or how to pull up my calloused skin

to let you take a peek.


27 wadded papers line my floor

(I counted)

you hate the mess

but you’re not there anymore.

(you counted)

so sometimes I don’t wash my hair.

I can’t pretend to care.

—By Alaska Jones


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    This is beautiful.
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