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.