Sitting here this morning, thumbing at random through Bukowski- reread the same poems I read yesterday.
“The girls in pantyhose wait,
they await the proper time and
moment, and then they will move
and then they will conquer”
He and I enfeebled by Lolita, fatigued by the indefatigable ideal that draws your eyes up a skirt and down a shirt
and even if you could have it
you’re just going to want a pizza later
Oh, Buddha, where are you now? The burning house smells of ripe cunts. And it burns and burns.