Snails and blue birds

 
Charles Bukowski once said-“ you should not write poems
If you want women in your bed”

Dear Mr. Bukowski:
if you had been writing poems like a whispering hissing light,
you would have had the most beautiful women in your bed
along with a long needed revolution in our bed,
And you would have never had to pay even for a prostitute
or the she-star-poet of sorts
for she would have been like a child
voluntarily
kissing  your bluish veined cheek
pinned by your elbow
to the cracked table of age...swinging
in the smoke of thoughts, the apparition of woman
rustlling the lines on your palms
in your ancient books,
the yellowish butterflies,  the signs, the whispering letters
of your sad airial labor
would have flown like the lace of her lingerie
like the tablecloth ruffles, like the shadows from the dim light of a lantern -
the autumn decor in our vomited bar of existence.

And she would have stripped.
She would have stripped you to the bottom of your desire
for her shady countenance
for the enigma of a dark tongue
for the locks on the bookish flesh
covered with sweat drops of an ineffable
longing for the knowledge which would have reached
to the bottom of innocence
of the goldie locks
of the Beloved.

Dear Mr. Bukowski:
If you had been writing your poems like a whispering breeze,
flying your blind fingers over the bulging letters
of her ancient mythical rythms
each of your lines would have had broken
the boundaries between a man and a woman
You -- would have dissolved  all her strongholds
-- the bars on the bed heads
to which  women customarely  cling with their fists
during  childbirth,
their caved labor of anger and love,
you would have untied
the knots of her stubborn, dark brows and broke the spears of lashes,
which had been hiding the silvery core of her pencils --
her pupils drowing in the sparkling darkness of eyes,
the steel of her eyes,
melting blending obliterating defences
into her longing for bliss,
her longing  --
for the cages that would have set free all of her birds,
for the cells cleansed of her animal fat by your breezes,
for the veins on  her wrists cut by the blue crystal of skies.
for the music of your airy touches.
And the music, the music -- the gentlest music of yours -
It -- would have fanned out the roughness of her childish goosebumps
which her fear pops up as she clings to the lonely  cold silk of her dreams,
it would have dusted off  the white sheepish skin of the female
cleansed clean by the mellow melody from the rust of the iron aged blood;
And there she would have been
strung up on the laundry hanger beneath the window sill
on the ninth floor of a modern building
swaying like the whisper of
everything that could fly on the wings of the heavenly breezes
Even the locked doors of  the cages for blue birds
can fly in the waste of the skies
above the pink fog steaming up from our red shredded soil --
the soil of her deeds and desires.

Dear Mr. Bukowski:
She would have never been able to explain
or understand you at all - in this case.
she would not have had to.
She would have just been touching your line
after line
like miraculous relics
breathing your whispers in
and out
in
and out
until one day she would have discovered
that there is no air left for a breeze or a wisper
and -- she - would have started to suffocate from the screams that you've never uttered...
never let her into the pitch of your secret prison of screams...

the screams...
the residue that one leaves on the wake of departure from prison
the scream... that you would had hidden from her in your generous silence...
no screams and for  so long - so long - so long
as to leave her with all of her boundaries broken...
the cages... the bars.. 
and the stubbornly  knitted  eyebrows...
the shells that would have been crashed
the shuttering eyes
the shreds of a jelly fish...crying, and crying
and weeping them out like the wounded placentas --
in the  souls of the snails
they would have been leaking and leaking
into the gentliest waves of the sand

over sea by the whispering breeze ...

over the sea

no time would have been left for understanding your scream...

Dear Mr. Bukowski, if you  had just been... writting into your poems
the wisper of breezes.... the hissing of light
you would had have the most beautiful women.., in your bed

Dear Mr. Bukowski: ......if you would have just been...