las vegas charlies

on friday nights,

she loved

the queers.

a lipstick

fag hag,


her nipples

on cocksuckers,

she kept


grabbing their asses,

as if it was

her accident.

she liked

the albino

with piercings,

that chipped

her teeth,

and then painted

her tongue.

hairy cowboys

with square dicks,

they pulled

them out,

and talked

about her.

i smoked

my cigarettes,

with a stranger’s hand,

up my shorts.

the he/she


a pretty song.

and the yankees,


to be sissies,

with pine tar bats.

the fresh

flesh twinks,

was a side show.

i would fuck

the ugly ones.

like bukowski,

the old poet,

who fucked

weathered whores,

i read about them,

in sarcastic poems.

there must

be thousands.

of good ones,

i forget about,

the bad ones.

he was a good

for nothing,

low down.

not shy,

about sharing

his pecker

with the nameless,

and then writing

poems about them.

i liked him,

his style,

his demeanor,

i knew

his ass,

and balls,

as well

as my own.

i met him

in phoenix.

he was dead,

still moaning,

about the whore,

who stole

his poems.

he wished,

she’d taken

his right hand.

the one

he jacked off with,

i will never be

that lucky,

to have my

poems stolen.

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