Bukowski Smut

those nights in Ohio,
sitting in my chair,
drunk,
watching her cunt on the bed

my typewriter on the arm rest,
my hand on my purple onion

she would rub and rub at it,
and I'd smile and smile

I could hear her cunt hairs
against her fingertips

and I'd throw the toaster
out the window
onto the crab grass,

and she'd tell me I was bad, bad,

and the mail truck,
and the rain on the mail,
my big ugly mug

Oh,
if I am dying right now
typing this,
let it be in a cunt
rather than remembering one,

and the world continues on,
with the birds in the trees,
and the sparrow on my purple onion

Margaret,
I miss you

you were one of the good ones