anyone like Poetry ? .. favourite poets ? ... mine have to be ted hughes and plath , joyce , byron , blake , coleridge , and the ultimate mans man himself ... bukowski .. check it ... and tell me hes shit after .. - the screw game one of the terrible things is really being in bed night after night with a woman you no longer want to screwgame they get old, they don't look very good anymore — they even tend to snore, lose spirit. so, in bed, you turn sometimes, your foot touches hers — god, awful! — and the night is out there beyond the curtains sealing you together in the tomb. and in the morning you go to the bathroom, pass in the hall, talk, say odd things; eggs fry, motors start. but sitting across you have 2 strangers jamming toast into mouths burning the sullen head and gut with coffee. in 10 million places in America it is the same — stale lives propped against each other and no place to go. you get in the car and you drive to work and there are more strangers there, most of them wives and husbands of somebody else, and besides the guillotine of work, they flirt and joke and pinch, sometimes tend to work off a quick screw somewhere— they can't do it at home— and then the drive back home waiting for Christmas or Labor Day or Sunday or something. The Man With The Beautiful Eyes When we were kids there was a strange house all the shades were always drawn and we never heard voices in there and the yard was full of bamboo and we liked to play in the bamboo pretend we were Tarzan ( although there was no Jane) and there was a fish pond a large one full of the fattest goldfish you ever saw and they were tame. They came to the surface of the water and took pieces of bread from our hands. Our parents had told us: " never go near that house" so, of course, we went. We wondered if anybody lived there. Weeks went by and we never saw anybody. Then one day we heard a voice from the house " YOU GOD DAMNED WHORE!" It was a mans voice. Then the screen door of the house was flung open and the man walked out. He was holding a fifth of whiskey in his right hand. He was about 30. He had a cigar in his mouth, needed a shave. His hair was wild and uncombed and he was barefoot. In undershirt and pants but his eyes were bright they BLAZED with brightness and he said, "hey, little gentleman, having a good time, I hope?" Then he gave a little laugh and walked back into the house. We left, went back to my parents yard and thought about it. Our parents, we decided had wanted us to stay away from there because they never wanted us to see a man like that, a strong natural man with beautiful eyes. Our parents were ashamed that they were not like that man, thats why they wanted us to stay away. But we went back to that house and the bamboo and the tame goldfish. We went back many times for many weeks but we never saw or heard the man again. The shades were down as always and it was quiet. Then one day as we came back from school we saw the house. It had burned down, there was nothing left, just a smoldering twisted black foundation and we went to the fish pond and there was no water in it and the fat orange goldfish were dead there, drying out. We went back to my parents yard and talked about it and decided that our parents had burned their house down, had killed them had killed the goldfish because it was all too beautiful, even the bamboo forest had burned. They had been afraid of the man with the beautiful eyes. And we were afraid that all throughout our lives things like that would happen, that nobody wanted anybody to be strong and beautiful like that, that others would never allow it, and that many people would have to die. ........ Alone With Everybody the flesh covers the bone and they put a mind in there and sometimes a soul, and the women break vases against the walls and the men drink too much and nobody finds the one but keep looking crawling in and out of beds. flesh covers the bone and the flesh searches for more than flesh. there's no chance at all: we are all trapped by a singular fate. nobody ever finds the one. the city dumps fill the junkyards fill the madhouses fill the hospitals fill the graveyards fill nothing else fills.