Dead

Kafka, Bukowski And Me

Kafka turned to Bukowski and said,

“You var an arsehole”

Bukowski took a swig of his wine,

And answered

“It takes one to know one, baby”

Then we just sat there

In silence

Not one of the three of us spoke

I watched the flame of a candle

The only light to this room

After a while,

Kafka shot a confused glare,

Straight at Henry

Hank responded by pounding the glass of red wine

I just continued to sit there

Motionless

Without words to say

Taking it all in

Basking in their pissing contest,

But too small to interrupt

And let’s face it —

No one was sure

Just how I got here

And although none of us admitted to it

We all knew the answer

I held the slightest chance,

Of getting out alive

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

 

Party Of Six

Churchill, Van Gogh

Ford, Hemingway

Martin, and the Queen Mum

Seated in the back room

Just like they did

Every Saturday night

A mis-mashed group

All famous in their own ways

And always drunk by sundown

Vincent liked the wine, poured heavy and red

And never stopped fussing with the spot

Where his ear should have been

Winston and the Queen sipped on expensive pink champagne

And mumbled incoherently back and forth,

To only themselves

Dean was a bitter old fuck,

Liked his martini’s extra, extra dry

Ernest drank the Majito’s by the gallon,

And chased them with swigs of Absinthe

He would bitch about how they weren’t as tasty,

As they were in good old Havana

And then there was Betty

The old broad would suck down

Airplane fuel, if you set it

In front of her

Good old girl

And every Saturday night was the same

The same stories,

The same arguments,

The same chauffeurs and coachmen

To drag their dead asses back home

Here’s to the good ones

The world is a smaller place,

Without your repetitive stories

And devilish ways

© DIcky J Loweman 2015

The Parts They Will Remember

When I lie dead

What will they remember?

My cold heart?

My carelessness and carefree ways?

I doubt that

Those who will remember me, at all

Will remember the smiles

Those of mine, and those I brought

The smiles and the many written lines

Which often meant more to me than to them

I will be remembered as a giver

Often giving more than I had

They say this is a character flaw

I’d say that’s right

But, in the end

That’s just me

And I can’t (and won’t) speak for them

I hope some of these many interactions

Have sat well, with them

© D J Loweman 2015

 

 

Secret Place

And so the search begins

A search to find that special place

A place where only I can get to

A place to keep the artifacts

And all the memories

Of that glorious night

It must be tucked away

From the weather

And all who breathe

All the animals

All the people

A place I can never lose

A place to bury you

© Dicky J Loweman 2014

 

Giving Up The Ghost

When I woke up today things just didn’t seem right

I had sweated through my clothes

But I was so cold, I couldn’t stop the shaking

I looked down at my bed

It was neat and tidy, as if no one slept there

I walked into the bathroom

Everything gleamed white

Atomic white, in fact

Like a model

Just like it was never used

I looked into the mirror, but saw nothing

Only a void

I ran for the kitchen, the only room with a clock

Again, like it had never been lived in

My pictures missing off the walls

The cupboards, bare

That’s when it struck me

I’ve been gone a long time

I slowly walked to the front door

Afraid to open it, but also afraid not to

In the instant I swung open the door

That’s when I saw it

The beautiful, atomic white light

I could do nothing

Except move straight towards it

© Dicky J Loweman 2014

Dead Rose Clippings

My neighbor stopped me today

To ask if I had seen anyone in his yard last night

I answered no and asked him why

He answered that some person has been cutting his roses

I didn’t hear anything, I told him

‘To me it sounds like a vandal’

The only thing he couldn’t understand

Is why the person also trimmed

All the dead flowers away

‘Repayment’, I remarked

And walked into my house

Where I refilled the roses on my table

Trimmed off two dead leaves

And through them in the trash

With the rest of the dead rose clippings

© Dicky J Loweman 2014

 

Traunt

A simple job to do

Paid well in advance

Quite a few sheckles

For such a minimal task

And yet, all these incentives

You

Were nowhere to be found

So now

I must start the task

A new job

One that will be used

As a sort of payback

For nights you’ll sleep

With the worry hanging around

Just like the rope

That will soon caress your throat

© Dicky J Loweman 2014