Mouth like Bukowski

The sun crept up behind the tree line
we rose like zombies
from the grave
cotton mouthed
and disappointed

just
another day of errant madness
slaving to make filthy men
rich
instead of rich men
filthy

I kissed you with a
mouth like
Bukowski
we grappled like
MMA fighters
in a cage

sex and violence is
differentiated only
by the nature of the
hard on

I ran my crooked fingers
through your hair
and thought
this could
almost be enough

we are the nowhere people

governed by a
shallow sense
of duty
dictated by a
brutal sense
of fear

tormented by
the past
tortured by the present
threatened by the future
trying desperately
to see beauty at
the gallows

I found empathy
from the bottle
five cent deposits
on my soul

too many false starts
and premature finishes
standing still in a rushing
river of potential

not waving
drowning

useful as
a rubber crutch
in a polio ward

nothing says potential
like a stark white page
or closure
like a viking ship
ablaze

I said all we have
is tomorrow
you replied there isn’t
such a thing

just the ever-present
now

then, baby
all we’ve got
is us.

©Peter Hammarberg

Written in 2012
Published in Misfit Lit Chapbook 1.2 2013