Heat

Other "writers", or so think
themselves that,
bore me like an empty glass,
like the sex scene
in every romance novel
I've ever fingered through
to get off
from having to sit
through another arguement
with my woman.

They never have enough grit,
roughness like a fist fight,
no blood and bruises,
just clean shoes
and t-shirts.

Meanwhile,
I can't find my own
torn under-
shirt and my feet
are caked with dry
mud and shit.

Who cares?

Another drink
and I'll be back
on top.

The rent's past due,
hot water shut off,
but there's bread and butter
in the fridge,
and the city is hot.

*Inspired by Charles Bukowski's "Notes of A Dirty Old Man".