Don’t Feel too Bad for the Fading Beauties

Because you read poetry

And you’re not a psycho

You feel bad for

The fading lady

Whose sagging smile

Made every Hell

A Heaven for a while

Back in her day.

And you feel sad too

When you see the

Solitary stripper

Up there barely

Moving those hips

Because she doesn’t

Have health care

And because her

Aging ass only draws

Pity tips. Feel bad for

Them but not too bad.

You gotta know that

Both the lady and

The dancer spent

Their fresh

Hips and thighs

Smiles and breasts

On psychopathic

Pro-sports fans

Who

Made

Rapist dog

Murderers

Into millionaires,

Rarely if ever

Tipped anybody,

And never

Read poetry.

 

— FB

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

No Ass

I’m amazed at images

Of all these old white rockstar’s

former and current gfs

And wives. You’d think

That with millions in

The bank and worldwide

Praise, they would have

Found themselves women

With ample derriers.

But no, it was one skinny-

Ass psuedo-hippie cocaine

Sucking skank after another.

It’s somewhat strange when

You learn that all these old white

Rock farts learned from the

Old black bluesmen who

For the most part

Created the rhythms and

Licks that the rockers just

Sped up. Of course the

Bluesmens’ lyrics were

reality-based, not the bubble-

Gum peace and love lies

I grew up listening to. I

Would have been so much

Better prepared for the harsh

Truths of life if I’d grown

Up listening to the bluesmen

who knew that since you can’t

Trust any woman, you might

As well get your lies from one

With a sweet baby face and

A big fat ass.

–FB

The Martyr

On the playground

At St. Mary’s Elementary,

I had a fantasy, really I

Had many. One featured

Me dying while defending

The sweetest-looking blue-

Eyed girl in school. Another

Fantasy starring me was about

A motorcycle race that had

Mysteriously been arranged

So that she herself was the

Winning prize. Both fantasies

Ended with me dying valiently,

As bloody and tragically-

Handsome as Jesus himself

Hanging on on the cross in

The Lord’s house. But I died

Happy both times, because in

Each fantasy, I breathed my

Last as she held me in her

Snow-white arms and didn’t

Even mind the blood

On her uniform dress.

I didn’t know then that first-

Prize girls don’t bother with

Losers, especially if they shed

Blood for them.

And so many

Love those who

Spill blood,

any blood,

Instead.

–FB

The Danger in Romanticizing

 

A woman’s

hand, no matter

how much

it might

resemble a

dove,

isn’t one.

Seeing it as a

dove is

something

poets and

others who

romanticize

reality do.

And while

that can

be a lovely

way of looking

at life, it’s also

a dangerous

thing too —

especially when

that “dove”

flies

into your

wallet and

uses the

leaves

it finds

there

to fortify

a nest

in an

unromantic

heart.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski

 

 

Goodbye, My Valkyrie

Another morning of

trying to force this

failing body from

this warm futon

to carry on the

life struggles known

to peasantry. On

mornings like this,

I used to visualize

a woman standing

above me, a luminescent,

fair creature, an angel,

a warrior princess,

a valkyrie, holding

out her dove-white

but strong hand,

ready to clasp mine

and pull me up and

into the fray common

to those who never

won life’s lottery; but

just like the so-called

“real” women of flesh-

and-bowels, who cavort

their way through life’s

deadly pageantry, I finally

gave her up too this morning,

because she was never

really there anyway, you

see, just like the “real” ones,

a few of whom were

present, sure, for a

time, at least in body,

while the gravy was

good; but they never

stayed through the thin

gruel days. So where does

an imaginary warrior-

maiden and soul-mate

Sail after a man has finally

said goodbye?

Does she head over

to comfort the worst

of men: the braggarts,

the blockheads, the

mindless materialists,

the drug dealers, the

pimps and puppy abusers?

Are these the ones that

imaginary valkyries fly

towards to pull up from

their beds and futons to face

life’s hard realities? I wouldn’t

be surprised if that’s true;

after all, what did the so-called

real women do, most often,

with their priceless, life-giving

eyes, and thighs, and lips, and

all the rest, but gift them to the

most worthless and least grateful

of men? Therefore, following more

than half-a-century of scribbling 

love notes and poetry and even

sometimes song mixed

with sincerity of longing, and not

looking half-bad at all, according

to more than a few, I finally gave

up on those real women of lovely

flesh but thin blood; and this

morning, I even said my final

Farewell to my angel of light, my

valkyrie, my princess of the

mind. This may be poetry, or it

may be self-pity; but it

also happens to be the undiluted,

undeluded reality of my life, and

the lives of many others too. So fly

away fly on, and keep flying, my

valkyrie, because you

were never really there above my

bed. Spread those wings 

And soar into some gods-

forsaken eternity, and

I’ll stay under these covers just a

little while more. 

 

–Fyodor Bukowski, author of Mail-Order Annie