Can we honor BUK with a poem here? (1 Viewer)

I think this can be an interesting exercise. I tried it on another forum and it failed miserably. I hope something comes of it here.

This is how it goes:

I'd like to see a collaboration from the members of this forum on this poem. I'll start with the first line and anyone can contribute the next line, and just one line please. You decide where line breaks, and stanzas will end and begin.

The maximum length is 50 lines; unless someone thinks the poem is complete before then. When complete, well see how we collectively speak and feel.

I think this can turn out to be very interesting. But if the idea really sucks, just say so, and we'll bury it.


Line 1:


Every now and then I see her




Good luck

joe
 
a woman's touch

Every now and then
I see her
in the things
she's left behind.

Every scar, every bottle,
every hang-over, reminds me of her. . .
the pale fish tank, the credit card.

I remember the tampon that
she left floating in the toilet bowl.
 
I remember the tampon she left floating in the toilet bowl

Every now and then
I see her
in the things
she's left behind.

Every scar, every bottle,
every hang-over, reminds me of her. . .
the pale fish tank, the credit card,
and the ten dollar black shoes.

But the things that meant the most to us
have fallen from her hands

To die, now.

Or to breathe diesel air from
ragged pipes of rusted steel.

It seems that's all which is left.
 
OK, go first - by Buk.net

She said I must have been good in bed when I was younger.

I got dressed and I left.

Then I went to the nearest bar.

I lucked into one that didn't
make you puke when you went into the crapper.

And as I finished, my wallet fell
Into the toilet.

So, I stood on my head and sang opera.
 
OK, go first

OK, go first - by bukowski.net

She said I must have been good in bed when
I was younger.

I got dressed, and I left.

Then I went to the nearest bar.

I lucked into one that didn't
make you puke when you went into the crapper.

And as I finished, my wallet fell
into the toilet.

So, I stood on my head and sang opera,
and cursed the hairy-assed flies
while the meager contents of my wallet
slowly dried.

I went out into the bar again,



and noticed I was in my black socks.

I'd taken my shoes off to dry, and had
left them behind in the restroom.
 
I fished out the dried bills
from my wallet and
headed straight over to the
East Hollywood Liquor Store
For two six-packs (tall) and a
pint of Scotch
 
were all rats I thought to my self,(grinning a little grin). the whole world is just fucking rats.
 
I remembered what she had said
and asked myself,
how can you tell if a rat is old or young?
when does he stop being good in bed?
 
She was bending over
And I saw her through the window
While I was listening to Shostakovich 10,
Allegro.
My whole life a symphony:
pretty girls bending over and
showing me their ass,
great music on the radio,
two bottles of German Bernkastel white...
And sitting at the typer
Writing this poem....
 

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