ice

i think Bukowski

marketed his angst

cuz he had nothing

to do with his anger

except drink whiskey

and fuck women

then write about it.

i tried doing the same

and nobody paid me.

cubes in my glass

sink

melt into a puddle

of self loathing

because it is not easy

like everyone says it is.

body transgressed

left for the taking

choosers are beggars

but i do not even have to ask.

i am a woman.

a lost girl

wandering the streets.

the call me

fatherless

because my tongue

is pierced

like my heart

that cannot love.