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.

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