drink me...

everyone says;
thank god she survived...

fact is...
I
lost
her
between blurred ticks
and amputated tocks
one too many trips
to the operating room...

in dreams
I picture surgeons shooting the shit---
as her essence
slips
drips
unnoticed
off the table.
bits of who she once was
floating
lost
in an orderly’s mop bucket.

fuck you.
fuck your god.
think I'll have another drink,
fake another smile
one more nod
keep doing all I can
to keep from screaming---

yeah I’m buzzed.
what of it?
sunset slides helpless into black
and the bottle moans
"drink me..."

© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar

got god?

murder; the new trial separation
it makes perfect sense...
don't want her any more
yet,
can't let the bitch leave.
shit,
what's a narcissist to do?

eureka!
dismember her
along with your unborn child
stuff the remains
into two garbage bags.
yes!
completely doable
hell, even economical
considering the cost
of divorce, alimony and child support
versus
one CHAIN SAW.

ain’t love grand?
that stupid cow busily painting the nursery
never saw it coming.

here a limb there a limb.
slaughter, scatter
clean the splatter
and they lived
happily ever af....

ooops my bad
wrong ending---

twisted-sick-fucker

by the way
oh merciful,
benevolent god,
where the fuck were you?

© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar

less perfect

some days I find you
even less perfect than me.
love follows it’s own course
changing temperature, indeed direction
within the smallest flutter,
a fact I find humourous
—after a quarrel.

you know me so well---
in your bastard moments
you unleash my demons,
parading them before my eyes
then flick them into the gutter
like spent cigarette butts.

then there are days I need you
only to find you’ve strolled away in the afternoon sun
more interested in your own journey.

it’s a conundrum
love’s vines can’t scale brick walls
without the sunlight of full disclosure.
yet, this leaves me
vulnerable
to your every whim.

my only requirement
tread carefully with my heart in tow---
above all,
know that I too
can summon your demons
by name...

© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar

my version

now that you’re gone
I will fold my withered eyes
into tiny tear-soaked souvenirs,
then I’ll place them in a package
and mail them to you
so that maybe some lonely day
when you think of me
if you think of me
you could take them out
and carefully peel
them open,
hold them
up to the light
and then maybe
you’d finally see
my version
of what destroyed
"us"
before you
strolled away
and became
nothing
more
than

a distant memory~

© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar

pairs

S uddenly its just me
O f course i understand
L ife is funny that way
I blinked my eyes and you moved on
T ime for me to move on
U nlock the cage
D ance again
E very thing becomes new again

everything comes in pairs
except me.

i dont mind
the solitude.

© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar

getting dirty with chuck

What do you think Chuck Bukowski
would think
of all his hanging-on-every-word-groupies
out there these days?
author of the second wave beat generation,
I think the bastard's still sitting
at a bar somewhere
still swilling, forever grinning.
casting that come hither look
all his fans mistook for soft-porn living.
I've been reading him lately,
the words of a dead man
plunked on the page stark
fearless of reprisal, he didn't give a shit
he just wrote it the way it slid best.
wanton drunkenness, lewdness,
sexuality and brawling
became his calling card to the masses.
life mimicked his art -OR-
was it the other way around?

Even the shiny bastard with bad breath
hadn't gotten the best of him
as soon enough,
his son would eat him for lunch on Ham and Rye.
but he hadn't yet begun
to nibble around the edges of poetry
until he hit thirty-five
and met Janet Cooney Baker,
ten years later the drunken Baker levee would break.

Then came the Post Office,
Frances Smith licked his stamps
well enough to keep him off the streets
and long enough to conceive Marina Louise.
by then his work fucking exploded
framed within these glorious irreverent titles;

"FLOWER, FIST AND BESTIAL WAIL."

"ALL ASSHOLES IN THE WORLD AND MINE."

"EJACULATIONS, EXHIBITIONS, AND GENERAL TALES OF ORDINARY MADNESS."

"AT TERROR STREET AND AGONY WAY."

and...

"THE DAYS RUN AWAY LIKE WILD HORSES OVER THE HILL."

With success, Frances was out the door
then came a slew of younger cunts
(he'd be so proud of my word choice),
Linda King, Linda Lee Beighle.
Chuck had a thing for the lovely Linda's...
and perhaps a few more
thrown in for good measure.
in the end they would call him one of the "dirty realists"
and in 1992 they published his last book of poems
"THE LAST NIGHT OF THE EARTH POEMS."

Here's to you Charles Bukowski, dirty never read so good......

© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar

i know...

it is here
within these two words
where the ruins
of your secret thoughts
lay abandoned
just like the little girl
you once were.
cameras banned
writers won't write it
no canvas to capture it
the love you can't utter
the loneliest place on earth ...

must reside in you.

© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar