so this fucker was
quietly drinking a whiskey
the last of summer evenings
In attempts to capturing sanity
with air signs dominating
homeliness and relaxation
with heart pounding
sitting on the verandah
in the dark sipping
having a cigarette
its allowed when drinking
the table had a candelabra
and a saw on it
mosquitoes with weak venom
were making themselves at home
for the night
the usual gang was gathering
a bashful buttock appears
soapy wet curved
with a woman
pail porcelain skinned
unravished by the summers sun
with it
guy sat up under the steps
listening
not saying a word
blood lipped orchid
peeked through the window
wanting to join in
even a tick saw potential
in the gathering
as it
clang to her arse
I have written this poem
over five days
five different ways
It’s a bloody brilliant poem
everyone shall love it
It has Bukowski
talking of whores
and cheap hotels
it channelling Burroughs
and the naked lunch
as suggested
by the Portuguese columnist
it was poison
she wanted to talk about
she was right
but the naked buttocks
had more to say than all of then
Hemingway said write drunk
he didn’t use a computer
the spellcheck is killing
my fabulous expression
the day began
with a poem being published
delighted I tried to talked to its editors
this shall be a writing day
I started with a big can of tea
organised documents
and spread the word
pottering around with a cup in my hand
I learned this form a professional
this is how to write stuff
how to write poetry
I did the washing
I washed up
I made more tea
I even oiled the steps that Guy was under
that took way more time
than expected
to do this right I needed to capture
my characters so
I went to Systemet the off-licence
I bought beer and whiskey
bought cigarettes
but really I wanted martini
ten cigarettes in and still not a word
I lied I bought martini as well
two and am on the second
It shall come to me
as ash covers the keyboard
If I do this justice
It shall have a Kafka ending
the snake scarers
have more chance
rhythmically buzzing
my thoughts
but I can only think of that arse
did I do it justice
and appreciation
I pulled the tick
and poured single malt whiskey
to cure the wound
it ran down the leg
to her foot
all the way down
with small splashes
on her bum
rubbed in for best effect
If I only had more in the glass
this moment would last longer
This poem was published in Golden Hour - Hora Dorada
you can buy it by send a message with your address to
colm@ciarnain.com it costs 12€ + postage
here at Litteraturcentrum Kvu
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