The Object Of Affection

that old flurry of passion
it strange when you don't miss it
but you know it when you see it
wanting
coveting
what you can't
or shouldn't
shouldn't
I couldn't
could I
Have

needing
yearning
          god what an ugly word
filthy
   to yearn
but it is       accurate

calculated

like
 a snake
that needs the sun
bakes itself like a hot cinnamon bun

then count down
ten
to
one
ten
to
two

let the body cool

To The Whore Who Took My Poems

some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be mony and whores and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.

Charles Bukowski