Alan Catlin

Claude Powell's Charles Bukowski

lounges in boxer shorts and short
sleeved shirt, under tee riding up
to expose a hardened belly swollen by
drink and fast foods, receding hair
swept back from his forehead, eyes
closed, face contorted in satanic glee:
enjoying a rude joke at someone else's
expense?, an expansive boast?, a drunken
laugh at man and kind?, confessions
of a dirty old man? Or is he relishing
the shoot taken at close quarters in
a garbage strewn kitchen? an unknown
naked woman on his lap, laughing
as he alternately feels and touches
all the intimate places on her body
in, what first seems to be, a collage of images,
but, later, is known to be, reconstructed
Polaroid snapshots torn by his live-in
lover, Linda, and repaired for posterity,
a false acre of land reclaimed from
the bitch Goddess, Lady McDeath,
the woman he feared the most but
always returned to, late nights,
on the folding wooden chair pulled up
to the ancient manual typewriter,
empty carriage fully extended at the end
of a line, blank pages strewn nearby
on end table and floor, waiting to be filled.

1 comment:

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