Misery, after Bukowski

I have my possessions.
Books, creasedcovered, clothes stretched,
holey. Some silver coins, nil.
Just a cub scout, paper route, merit
badged, buck toothed, ruck
sacked, dough eyed wandering
child.
Without her I'm a foetus in a furnace.

I choked up at the terminal,
fitted, couldn't take, pitied
myself and loved and shit-
picnicked pathos couldn't care
for her the way she needs,
wish I could go back
and kidnap her or something,
make a beeline for Utah,
live as happy gurning Mormons,
bone on fake Navajo rugs,
drink radioactive well water,
be happy, together, dumb.

Shortest night of the year, dusk to
transatlantic dawn in five dry hours.
Was it a dream my hand
twined hers, my neck
wet with her tears?

Godfucking damn cunt shit
all-American swearwords
just about cover it.

Only last night she drew my portrait
frowning and unsatisfied hand
stuck to thick ol' paper bluring
my features into hot coups des graces,
her Gaugin instinct goes agin, in
the pursuit of a better suit
to align my malign chin in.
I sat all lock-jawed
getting a neckache, a rumble
in the temple, thinking I'd better
not foul her art up
by blinking, just brace
elbows, settle in, stare
at the same page of Ulysses
for over an hour,
trying to crack Jimmy's
perverse bastard code.
I flicked a pupil at the pap-er
once in a demi-heure
trying to spy-her
pretty pic-ture,
she frowned.

I loved her pride,
wish I had her eyes
on me right now.
After drawing she drawled
and nodded on the sofa,
sleepy, counting roller coasters.
She is the one, only one I can
turn on, turn to.

I'm depressurised, alone,
darkened cabin, sleeping yanks,
harassed stewardesses tidy messes
on the plane that jerks cross half the world
and I cry into the dirty mirror
above the vacuumed toilet bowl.