Bukowski ate women like they were convenient comfort foods
served up like mediocre apple pie in a dusty roadside diner in the west
presentation lacking but not to be turned away
redheads with bad skin, blondes with fallen arches, brunettes with small mouths

where are all these women, these whores, these crazed wolverines now?
who tried to take a piece of his soul, to devour art from his fuck
I wonder if they succeeded

I wonder if the crazed fuck I have given to my men

my pliable, endless stream of short, tall, quiet, crazy men
with their bad habits
overgrown eyebrows and hair
unclipped nails
big mouths with large too slow tongues for talk

has given them a piece of my dysfunctional spirit
wandering restless passion during mania
bleak defeat during depression

they wouldn’t know what to do with it
but Bukowski’s women might know
their cravings for raw potential to be fucked into them
I understand